Cry Baby

Last Friday, during all the dreadful events in Mumbai, I was woken up by my dad at 6:30 PST.

Eufemia: ....huh-low?

Papa: You see what's happen in da news?

Even though it's 6:30 a.m. and I'm barely aware that I'm a concious living thing, I know he's referring to the upsetting situation in Mumbai, and not the possible crisis in Canadian Parliament.

Papa: I say to myself thank God Eufemia no still there. They say this India's 9/11.

One guy said it. Quite the sound-bite. Then it becomes the headline, and now I've seen pictures of fellas with the giant numbers 26/11 written on the backs of their vests.

Eufemia: Papa, come on, I didn't even go to Mumbai.

Papa: Doesn't matter. India is India.

Can't argue with that logic.

Today, my dad calls at 7:30 a.m. and says "You see what's happen? What Governor General do? Because Stephen Harper go crying to her."

There are days when I love the guy so much it hurts.

OMG, WTF, & Any Other Useless Short Forms

I really should try to write more, and I keep meaning to, but somehow I get caught in in my daily grind that involves work, avoiding more work (of a personal nature - not the paying kind, the writing, the projects on backburners, the LAUNDRY. Dear God, the laundry) But I just have to spell it out loud -

OH MY GOD!

Stephen Harper (or as my friend Cathy refers to him Mr. Crazydevileyes) - what are you saying? What kind of Bull is this? Referring to what's happening now in Parliament (which is all your fault, in case you were wondering) as "undemocratic"? Man, you are a piece of work. A disturbing, lying, arrogant, wanker-speaking piece, to be sure. And if that wasn't enough, you've delayed my "Harper Goes Down & I'm Happy Dance." (It looks a lot like Snoopy's Happy Dance)

How dare you call the process undemocratic? It's our Canadian process, even if it's unprecendented. And it kicked in to kick you in the nuts because you deserved it.

As my hero Bugs would say "Da noive of some peeple!"

Elections Day

The last several conversations I’ve had with my mom have been peaceful, calm and tranquil: we were both cracking jokes and talking about more than just the weather. This is so unusual for us. It’s eerie. I almost considered giving her my phone number, but then I thought about the times she was in psychosis and calling non-stop. Then again, maybe I won’t.

When I spoke to her this thanksgiving Sunday, she told me a guy called Patrick “Doyle” stepped out in front of her and shook her hand as she was heading up into Sunday Mass, and then another guy tried to shake her hand but she got scared and hurried into the church.

I said “Patrick who? Gosh Ma, I hope you didn’t shake a Conservative guy’s hand,” but she couldn’t tell. Then my mother says to me, in the same concerned voice she used when she beat the pants off me in a game of Monopoly 4 years ago “They’re all the same, and they try, but sometimes they have to clean up the mess the man before them make, and then they can’t change nothing for better because they too busy clean up the problems from before.”

All I could say was “Uhm….yeah.”

I’ve spent years thinking of my mother as shrewd but simple, not concerned with the bigger picture at all, a person who would have preferred to have stayed in the village, life in a new country, a big city was too overwhelming for her. Everything unfamiliar was intensely feared. So it took me by surprise to hear her commentary.

Sadly, I looked up the riding I grew up in and of course, stupid Patrick Whathisface is a Tory. Like they give a damn about people with mental illnesses, people like my mother. I wonder who the other guy was….and MAN do I ever wish I’d been there. Though I doubt I woulda said anything, let alone even smack his hand away, but I’d like to think I’d try….that I might say “Hey Pat, when will we get a National Mental Health program working? Shouldn’t we be ashamed of ourselves as a highly developed nation? I know I’m ashamed of your Party’s platforms, so don’t shake her hand. I’d rather you just spit in her face, and we-the-people kick you in the shins on Election day.”

Then, after I already made my prejudiced decision, I decided to look at Patrick’s website and it seems like the guy has done some good work, but then it is his PR page I’m reading. Doesn’t he know he works for the devil? The one that goes by the name of Stephen Harper?

Whenever my father used to say “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” I’d think, can’t I see the new devil first and decide?

Because the devil we know will destroy us.

Some Half-Baked Alaskan

Forwarded by a friend, and just what I've been thinking about these days...
Eve Ensler, the American playwright, performer, feminist and activist best known for "The Vagina Monologues", wrote the following about Sarah Palin.

Drill, Drill, Drill.

I am having Sarah Palin nightmares. I dreamt last night that she was a member of a club where they rode snowmobiles and wore the claws of drowned and starved polar bears around their necks. I have a particular thing for Polar Bears. Maybe it's their snowy whiteness or their bigness or the fact that they live in the arctic or that I have never seen one in person or touched one. Maybe it is the fact that they live so comfortably on ice. Whatever it is, I need the polar bears.

I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.

But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.

I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country choose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.

Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, "It was a task from God."

Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will should have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.

She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.

Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States . She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.

Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.

I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S. , but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move towards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.

If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, "Drill Drill Drill." I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.

Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?

September 5, 2008

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

It's day 5 with no coffee. NO COFFEE. I 've had forms of caffeine in various power bars, green teas, matcha tea, and even a green-kombucha tea combo. But I miss my coffee. I have to say, this was a new and unwelcome addiction entirely. Years of being offered espresso under conditions that can only be referred to as terrorist hospitality gave me a throat-jerk dislike for the bitter sharp taste of coffee. Add some hot milk and sugar and now you're talking... As one dearly beloved said, this is "desert in a mug" and I agree. Pure Liquid Gold, as the Spanish conquistadors said to the Mayans.

The Mayans predicted something big goes down, or the world would end, in 2012. I know, I'm mixing it up...but if coffee were to run out in 2012, I could totally see that day of destruction: So long Starbucks. I hardly knew ya.

For a very new habit, why am I so attached? It all started last year, hangin' out with those wild non-fiction writers in coffeeshops around town. Coffehouses. Coffeebars. First it was a cappuccino. Then a small latte. When I wanted to have an I.V. hook-up to double-shot Grande Latte, well it's GAME OVER.

So day cinq sans coffee. I'm building up to removing caffeine entirely. [COUNTDOWN: 2 weeks]Today was harder to take..it's overcast and I had a deaf man yelling at me through his Telus-relay operator. Truly an experience that would drive one to drink Draino, let alone strong, cheap coffee. I replied to all his frustrated and angry questions and waited during the time-delay for his reply and the relay operator raised her voice to repeat his typed out message to her, so I heard "I SAID I SPEAK TO SOMEONE RIGHT NOW..." then she lowered her voice and said in a conspiratorial whisper "It's not like this is your fault, he just isn't getting it..." I said "Thank you for saying so. Could you tell him I've now been on the phone with him for12 minutes , I've run out of options to reroute his call and I need to terminate the call. He can call back later."

I really, really, really wanted to yell back. I wanted to swear, actually, he'd been so rude for the duration of the call. Rude and a tad incomprehensible. I think there was an ESL problem, compounded with a touch of psychosis. So it couldn't have been fun for him, and I imagine he's under a tremendous amount of stress.

Still, it's really hard to hear a relay operator say "I SAID I SPEAK TO SOMEONE NOW...why you follow my kids and harrass family...I...call media in half an hour ...you don't get me ...phone.... my fax sent and last year WHY YOU STILL HARRASS ME AND MY KIDS?!" and not respond with

"What the FUCK are you saying?"

Sadly, my schedule this Fall doesn't allow time for a non-violent communications course, but I'm already looking into the Spring schedule. I wonder if I really need it, cause I didn't say it. I just wanted to. Big difference, right?

It's just, there's this part of me that wants to say to people, in the nicest, most non-violent way possible: Nothing gives you the right to be an asshole. Nothing.

Maybe he was giving up coffee too. Poor jerk.

Caw-fee, Sugah, Foamed Milk & Other Reasons to Live

I went to a TCM place last week, that’s Traditional Chinese Medicine. Where, for a paltry sum, I got herbs that look AND taste like un-used cat-litter, and accupuncture. All to help with this little problem I have of feeling exhausted all the time. You say gluten, I say anaemia. Let’s call the whole-wheat thing off.

They measured my pulse, and described it as “slippery” and “witty”. I’m not making that up. I was reading it upside down though, so there is some margin for error and interpretation. As I lay there with needles poking into me from my forehead to the arch of my foot, I tried to think of what other word it could possible be. Watty? Wotty? Wetty?

No. Clearly, I have a brilliant pulse. Slippery when wet, and genius.

Sure.

My pulse could win the Throbbing Pulse of a Brainiac’s Wet T-shirt Competition. If such a thing existed.

I didn’t bother to ask if I should eliminate any items from my diet, I just sat there and listened to terms like “chi stagnation” and “tonify the liver”. I was told “there’s a lot of pain” and I said, “Well yes, I’m exercising a lot and feeling it too.”

[Blogger’s insert: bootcamp….some Brainiac that makes me…more like a glutton for punishment. Is there a Glutton for Punishment Wet Something Contest? Or does that just about cover all those disturbing reality shows I haven’t seen? Okay, I’ve seen some excerpts, but I had to turn away. Shield my eyes. Pray for the fate of humanity.]

The woman said “No, emotional pain. You hold it here and here.” She pointed to her lungs and her stomach. “This is the weakness you feel, the tired all the time.”

I didn’t say “Emotional pain? Well, I’m human.” I wanted to, but I didn't. I mean really, did everyone else get through puberty unscathed? Survive middle school without severe trauma?

Well bully for you.

You won’t need acupuncture.

I guess that makes you special.

Big deal.

As if I believe you.

As if.

Youtube? Metube too!

I posted on youtube! This is quite the feat for a luddite such as myself:

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=eufemia+stand+up&search_type=&aq=f

Now I'm a recipient of the Time Person of the Year Award 2006, right? Like I can add that to my resume? No, seriously, tell me....'cause I'm calling my dad and telling him. Okay, it's no Nobel Prize for Peace, but then again, I'm no Kissinger.

Painkillers vs. Killjoys

There I was, standing in my local all-night super market at 5:30 am. I was enroute to my 6 a.m. bootcamp class, and I was on a mission: get painkillers. At first, the young man trying to help me points me down aisle 4. I hardly ever shop at this place, but even I know that they would never stock painkillers on aisle 4. Or any aisle, for that matter. The boxes are small and a bit too easy to steal in a neighbourhood that gets pilfered a lot. This guy must be new.

After he points me in the direction of a locked glass cabinet – I stand there trying to decide which painkiller would best suit a roommate with a fever. There’s Cold & Flu, there’s Sore Muscle & Back Pain Relief, there’s even Extra-Strength Existential or Mid-life Crisis Relief! Okay, no, I wish. I could not find the one for Fever, and all around pain that would wake said roomie at 5 am.

I mean, I had to get up. I paid good money to get up that early and run around outside, doing push-ups while someone in charge of my workout routine mocked my general lack of athletic ability. For anyone who knows me, I’m a morning person, but this would mean I was a ‘pre-dawn person’. Can’t say that’s my happy hour at all. I pick out what I think would work best, walk back over to the cash.

The young fellow rings it up at says “Drugs are bad. In the long run, it’s not good for you. But they do offer relief I guess.”

I’m in a bit of a stupor, standing there at 5:30 am, with a look on my face that I think says “Are you talkin’ to me?” It’s just past 5 am, fer crying out loud, do I know where I am? Not really, but hey, I’ve got an idea, why not engage me in conversation when you erroneously sent me down aisle 4 when I knew you were wrong but I humoured you anyway.

I wait until he hands me my change, at which point there’s another man next to me in line (doesn’t anyone sleep in this ‘hood?) and I say “You’d probably need painkillers at least once a month if you were female. I think that’s more the issue.” And I stalk away. Actually, more like I stumble away, as I tripped on my shoelace, but I repeat: it was really, really early. In the morning. All I could think was: does this guy actually know the meaning of pain? True physical pain? Of course he does, he’s human, but still what does he do? Bite down on a wooden spoon?

I know, not all women need painkillers. I know some females who can control the pain factor with reduced caffeine, sugar and gluten (Amazons, I tell ya, these women are modern-day Amazons) but like I’m going to be rude enough to go into all that while standing in line at the supermarket? Before day-break, when I can barely put a coherent thought together?

I thought about it.

Some days, that’s enough.

Mr. Harper, what were you thinking?

Dear Mr. Stephen Harper,

The first year I was old enough to vote, Brian Mulroney won the election with a majority vote for a second term. I myself would have to sustain a massive head injury with a blunt object before I would ever vote for you, or any member or the Conservative Party. I thought I should be upfront. Not that you care what I think, but I still wanted to mention, in my opinion, you suck.

I was really hoping to make an argument that was much more articulate, but I am beyond the ability to think clearly and rationally. I am surprised to have to tell the leader of a great nation the varied and multiple benefits of building and maintaining a strong artistic community.

Often, the arts work as our ambassadors to other countries, other cultures. I admire artists for so many reasons I don’t even know where to begin, but here’s one I thought even you would understand: Artists are the ones that entertain the troops. I should explain I’m expanding the definition of troops not only as the folks overseas, but as the people here at home, working day by day, building their families and their communities into a country we could all be proud of, a country many could admire.

Simply put, I think art saves lives. It changes people, it heals the masses. The only way I could ever applaud you, sir, is in the level of this stupidity:

Only last week, the government had announced it would slash the following programs because they were deemed out of date:
Trade Routes ($9 million).
the A-V Preservation Trust ($300,000).
the Canadian Independent Film and Video Fund ($1.5 million).
the National Training Schools Program ($2.5 million).
PromArt ($4.7 million).
All programs will disappear by the end of March 2009.

Shame on you, and shame on your political party. Make that a pox on your political party. When they go down in those figurative flames, I’ll be dancing in the streets to music by some Canadian artist, I’m sure.

Ghumshuda

When I get songs stuck in my head, it’s a very sad state of affairs. There’s a limited selection I can draw on, due to my musical ineptitude and downright ignorance. Hence I’ll find myself humming The Little Drummer Boy while strolling down the city streets in the merry, merry month of August. Sometimes it’s an 80’s song. Then I really worry, imagining myself rockin’ out to Spandau Ballet at the future senior’s facility I will inhabit.

Right now, I can’t get this song from a Bollywood movie - Bagwan help me!- out of my head. It’s from the movie Chalte Chalte (According to Wikipedia, the title translation is While Walking) and the song is called Ghumshuda – which is the chorus I keep repeating ad naseum – “Ghumshudaa! Ghumshudaaaaaaaaa! It means “Lost! Looooooost!” I’m addicted to the song and the dance number, which you can view too, thank you youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhHRnH3InGI

I just looked it up and felt that weird shudder you feel when someone walks over the fireplace mantle where your loved ones will keep the urn with your ashes in it. It’s very appropriate for how I’m feeling these days. I back in my home town; everything is as familiar as can possibly be. I’m gainfully contributing to society and proudly paystub-deduction-paying my taxes again. Feeling lost seems an odd way to describe the circumstances I find myself in, but “if the shoe fits princess, buy it.”

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Yes, She thought, thinking back, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It was not a dark and stormy night when She made the decision to return to the land of Her birth (okay, suburb of Her birth if you wanna get all technical about it, but it sounds stoopid) to visit her father for his 70th birthday. That decision was a God one. Yes, exactly right, God one.

What She was not sure about was, would She, should She tell her mother?...and so very quickly now because Papaji has finished his espresso and is tapping his feet waiting for her to finish with denternet. As in: How long you need denternet? I can just wait, why for I go some place else, I just drink my espresso and wait here.

It is called an espresso because you can drink it super fast and then tap, tap, tap: You finish?

She would like to tell you as well - "ees some bigga problema with this espresso-sports bar internet because no makea de punchooation, and also, She only gal here looky very loosy-goosy gal, no good for repewtation. Sorry for the no good punchooation everyabody."

Today, five minutes after She said "MAYBE WE SHOULD TELL YOUR BANK MANAGER NOT TO MENTION SEEING ME BECAUSE MOM DOES NOT KNOW I AM HERE" - they fatefully run into said Mom, with her faithful sidekick, Guiseppina, who She has come to refer to as that bullshitting-backstabbing-false-goody-goody, because Guiseppina tried to explain to Her last year how "Her mother truly loved Her and Her mother got sick with a psychotic illness because she (Mamma-She, not me-She) was soooo worried about this daughter after She left home."

This was when She (the daughter) replied: "Did she (the busybody) think she (the mother) was worried because she (again, the mother) thought someone else would kill me, did she (Ms. Idjit Busybody) think? Especially when she (the mother, in the library with the candlestick. Aha, that's the most important clue to solving this mind-puzzle) kept threatening to do that throughout my entire childhood and adolescence.

I am not proud of yelling at children in India, nor am I proud that I yelled at a septuagenarian and told her she was a no-good-busy-body-idiot, implying by my tone she could go F herself while jumping off a cliff, she understood absolutely nothing about me, my life, my mom the psychotic illness that had robbed me from having a mother.

That was last years visit. This is now. This time, I ignored them both and walked on, saying to my dad "KEEP WALKING, DAD, KEEP WALKING" - because I had not actually seen my mother. Only the busy-body, who clearly ignored my advice. When I realised my mom was in her car, in the passenger seat, I nearly threw up.

I gotta go, my dad has practically started the engine on the car, and I have tied up the phone line here. Old school, totally old school.

There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Oh my God!

Yes, that's right, in a world gone mad with text-messaging, I can't help but spell it out for you:

http://www.freerice.com

Please visit this site, test your vocabulary, get smarter and save the world, one word at a time.

Time Heals All Mother's Day Memories

It's been two weeks since I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day.

But you know what they say, "time heals all wounds."

And "This too shall pass."

And my personal favourite "Everyone you've ever cared about and you yourself are going to die"

Okay, I made that last one up, but I still think it could enter the fray of comments we use to calm distressed folks down. I don't think it would talk them off the ledge, so some personal powers of discernment would be required.

Sometimes I think of a friend who used to say "I'm over it," almost immediately after something had upset them and I would think "You sound like you've convinced yourself, well done." Because that's what this world really needs, more deluded people.

Four years ago, my father left in an ambulance and never went back. That year, I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day and her birthday, which happens to fall in mid-December. Then I found myself bawling at my counselor's office about what a terrible person I was, yelling at a woman who's been struggling with a mental illness since before I was born, and if that wasn't enough, I was yelling at her on Mother's Day! On her Birthday!

Things like "This is all your fault!" and "You're so crazy you drive everyone else around you crazy!" and "I left home to get as far away from you as possible, understand? You're toxic and dangerous and that's why dad left too!"

Have you seen these things written on any Hallmark cards? I thought not. I know I would be better suited to coming up with names for nail polish than working in the greeting card industry. I think it even said that on my grade 8 Future Careers Evaluation.

This is what my counselor said "You still have Christmas. You could make it a 3 out of 3."

I thought that was pretty good, as a reply. It made me laugh.

I can't remember now what I said to her that Christmas, but I'm quite sure I didn't yell at her. She didn't tell me she was living off her preserved peaches for a week because she had spent all the money the bank had given her. (She insisted they never gave her the money)

All I know is, four years later, it's still a struggle to not lose my patience. Last week I realised I need to get off the phone much sooner. Still, that's hard to do when someone is telling you, volume on high, every single thing they've told you a million times and they are still wanting you to do something about:

"Give me your phone number. Where is your father? Why do I have to stay here and you there and him where he is? This is wrong. All our problems started when you left home. Who told you to go? Who? Won't you give me your phone number so I can call you? I'm so alone all the time. I'm alone and I'm scared and I'm too much by myself."

So I say "I'm only going to say this another 50 million times: no, no and no AND I'm sorry I can't do anything about that, ma. You exhaust me."

Truth is I exhaust me, and it's been a long time that I can't see another way of coping but just listening and fulfilling my duty as a daughter, as one very wise doctor advised me to do, long-distance. It's true what they say - listening is a skill. It's an art. It's one I'm trying to master. And she's the hardest person in my world to listen to, so I'll keep practicing.

Every Sunday is another opportunity.

After all, Mother's Day comes but once a year.

Thank the Good Ganesh for that.
Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha

I Made to the Hot of the World, Ma!

In the spirit of the just past Mental Health Awareness Week and Mother's Day - an opportunity for a double-whammy few words from our sponsor - since I thought perhaps you were all wondering how my mom handled my global travel. I started this in India, so I'll finish it now. That would be my anxiety-ridden, self-medicating with alcohol to numb the effects of auditory hallucinations mother, in case you were confused about who I meant. I was. Confused, I mean. And I've known her my whole life.

Mamma: I know you in Toronto now. They see you at Sherway Garden Mall.

Eufemia: Who saw?

Mamma: They!

Eufemia: I hate they. You mean the voices. Do we have to go over this again, because I'd rather hang up. It's really hot here.

Mamma: Your voice is so clear, I can hear you like you're next door.

Eufemia: Well, I'm not. I'm 10 hours ahead of you, like I've been telling you since December.

Mamma: Where?

Eufemia: IN INDIA.

Mamma: Oh, ya, India. What's the weather like?

Eufemia: IT'S REALLY HOT.

Mamma: What's the time now?

Eufemia: Ten hours ahead. It's 5:30 p.m. [PLEASE NOTE: For 19 years my mother has been asking me, with a degree of regularity that makes me homicidal, what time it is in Vancouver. As if the Teutonic plates shifted again and Vancouver was suddenly in the same time zone as Japan]

Mamma: Did you eat dinner already? What you eat there?

Eufemia: Pasta.

Mamma: No, come on you.

Eufemia: Rice.

Mamma: Ya, I think they eat rice. Did you get my letters? I sent you some money for Christmas and your birthday.

Eufemia: I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M IN INDIA AND YOU SENT THEM TO VANCOUVER.

Mamma: You sure the girl* no steal what I mail you? I send you money. I send presents for Christmas and the birthday.

*By the girl, my mother means my God-sent roommate, who even called my mother to reassure her I was fine while I was away at the ashram without regular access to a phone. My mother's concerned Caroline would steal the 100% polyester blouse that looks like a sequin factory exploded and all these shiny, ugly bits and bobbles got stuck on this red fabric and some dear slave-wage seamstress decided to make the best of it.

Eufemia: She wouldn't steal anything. I'll be able to tell to you when I get home, stop asking me to tell you now.

Mamma: Are you coming home to Toronto?

[ANOTHER NOTE PLEASE: Toronto has not been home for 19 years. There was a house there, for a long time. It's been sold. But it was a house, not a home.]

Eufemia: No

Mamma: Why no?

Eufemia: Because you live there.

Stay tuned! Next up: How Eufemia Talks to her Mother on the Hallmark Holiday Engineered to Make herself Feel like a Donkey's Arse.

A Day in the Life of Love

Love likes to get up early in the morning to greet the dawn
some days, Love likes to sleep in.

Love washes its face and brushes its teeth
sees signs of itself growing older –
through laugh lines gathering at its mouth
and in the maps of many smiles past,
showing up in the creases by its eyes

This makes Love very happy

Love likes to see itself as both the roots of an old growth Oak tree,
burrowing down towards the earth’s core,
as well as the branches swaying in the breeze, reaching skyward
leaves dancing in the air

Love likes to dance

Love snaps its fingers to jazz &
hums out of tune with the car radio
Love, as it turns out, likes to rock out,
Love likes to play the Harmonium
and belts out Kirtan at the top of its lungs.
Love likes to chant mantras & recite prayers,
sometimes Love sings in the shower

Love likes to play Scrabble & knows a few card tricks

Love likes to go for walks on bridges over rushing water
Love likes to trapeze without a net
Love likes to place its head in the jaws of a lion
some might think this means Love is a daredevil
and this makes Love laugh
because Love knows
it can never die

Love gets in a full day, tilling the fields, gathering the crops
& also finding time to take a nap
Love as mother watches over you when you sleep
Love as father carries you on his shoulders
Love is both the family you’re born into and the family you find

Love taps you on the shoulder
steps on your toes
bumps into you on the sidewalk
bumps into you in India

Love moves continents because Love is a verb

at the end of the day,
Love reflects on its journey and realises
it is itself the destination
with this new found awareness
Love joins hands with Gratitude & Devotion

Love has expanded –
which is all it ever came here to do

Mai Canada Ka Houn

Alright, so it's been a bit of a bumpy week - well, Tuesday, that was a bit rough. Wednesday and Thursday weren't exactly picnics either though the Sun came out on Thursday (today) - I could see it from the windows of the day-long Celebrating Recovery Together Conference I attended. Though it being slightly warm (wait for it, I'll tell you when it's hot enough for ya) made me yearn for the hottest state - no, not Texas Mr. Ethan Hawke, Rajasthan. Maybe you should check your Geography and stats before you going naming your novels all willy-nilly and wrong like that.

Now begins the Tribulations part of this blog.

Why not, writing it kept me together in India and I think that's what I was missing here, what's keeping me together here? Figaro? Nay. Figaro Amadeus Furud* Fantetti, my feline soul mate, had this to say about my return:

"Where were you, you over-sized piece of mouse-dung? Enjoyed yourself? Thanks for missing Christmas, New Years, my birthday and our anniversary."

He did not apologise for the 5 pairs of shoes he wrecked (of mine, not counting the roomies!) including leather Puma runners. ("Puma this, sistah" I believe were his exact words.)

*The recent Indian addition/expansion to his name, Furud, means unique, matchless. He's okay with the name, he just wants me to grovel a little more.

What I wanted to tell you but forgot was - on the return flight, during the stretch between Singapore and Korea, I practiced my Hindi on Singapore Airline's Wiseman System, (it has the Berlitz Language program) and it asked the question:

Aap kahan ke rahne wale hai? Where are you from?

Never mind that all I could recognise in that sentence was You and From because it's worded completely different than any other way I've heard it before - (did I mention they have at least 5 names for the Moon in Hindi and everyone I asked could only tell me 2? Swamiji's comment: "There's more than 5, there's many" Me: "That doesn't help me at all, Swamiji.")

The answer popped up Mai Canada ka houn. Doesn't that rock? Or pardon me, bangra? Even the Airline's Berlitz Language Learning Tutor System says it's from Canada.

Though I admit, after a full day of rain and struggling with getting out of apartment, and getting winded when going up a hill/incline of a 15 degree angle, I didn't see the greatness of it so much anymore. Though I understand these things take time. Really? Things like gratitude and counting your blessings?

Nay.

This is what I've been using as a mantra, now that I don't have my daily dose of chanting to Durga, Ganesha, Gayatri and Shiva to start the day off right: Suck it up, cupcake. Some people have real problems.

I am my own worst enemy, it's true.

What happens in India

Unless you are rich, and can convalesce in a sanatorium estate (where visitors come down a tiered, oceanside lawn to find you at your easel), you have to keep going when you're depressed.

- Virginia Heffernan
A Delicious Placebo

In other news, there's a rumor that it's going to be 28 degrees in Vancouver tomorrow. I'll believe it when I feel it in my rheumatic bones.

In other other news, when the cable guy came by yesterday to see why my internet/phone signal was so weak, he confirmed that in the movie Iron Man they speak a version of Hindi-Urdu-Farsi-Mishmash. After I told him I'd spent most of my time in Rajasthan, he asked if I'd been to Jaipur, as 7 car bombs had just gone off there, killing several people near a Hindu temple and in the tourist district.

Later that day, my dad called, right on schedule to see if my phone was finally working. Dad called my roommate's phone my first day back and said "Thank God you're home. Tonight I finally gonna sleep good."

Out of my good Catholic girl guilt I apologised for causing him so many sleepless nights, "but you know there was nothing to worry about."

No, I'm not going to mention Jaipur, bombs going off in popular tourist zones, etc, and neither are you.

"Of course," my dad insisted, there was plenty to worry about. "Everything happens close to India. See what's happen in Burma? And in China now? Those places close to India, everything happen close to India."

Perhaps because the bombings in Rajasthan were a blip on the world news radar, he didn't catch it. But also, he didn't really know where I was in India, he never asked, I never clarified. I didn't even bother to say North. God forbid the man should pull out his atlas and take a look at the part where Rajasthan borders Pakistan, because then, somebody gonna get sleepless nights like you no believe and somebody else gonna get a talking to like she no need.

Like they say, what happens in India stays in India.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

Apparently, according to Mother Goose it's "Home Again, home again, not dancing a jig" - all these years and no one corrected me - how embarrassing to misquote Mother Goose, I mean, who's going to trust my Shakespeare or Biblical quotes if I can't nail down nursery rhymes?

So here's what happened: I went to see Iron Man with my friend Jenn (That's God Bless Jenn) and there were scenes where the bad guys were speaking Hindi! Possibly it was supposed to be Urdu but not being a linguist or even remotely close to fluent in Hindi, I can't tell these two languages apart. I heard difficult, what are you doing, very and nothing: mushkil, kya kara, bahut, kuch nay. It was great to hear Hindi outside of my Bollywood fare. And I liked the movie too.

Then walking home, I jaywalked across Georgia and Granville - when there was noooooo traffic for like miles and miles, but since the light was red - everyone was standing back, waiting and being extremely polite. I looked at them and thought "Aren't they cold? Don't they want to get home as fast as I do?" As far as I can see, we live somewhere where the traffic slows down because of insurance, and premiums, and stuff like that.

Just in front of HBC, a little mouse ran out, crossed my path and ran into the concrete planter. It might have been a baby rat, once again, this, like languages, is not my area of expertise as it were. It was the size of a Purdy's chocolate hedgehog, and no joke, it was soooo cute!

Well, my last rodent activity was standing on the train platform in Delhi and praying that the rats that were as big as the small cat that was at The Lotus Hotel in Pushkar would leave me alone by running the other way. I was praying very hard, because I didn't want Delhi-folk to remember me as that shrieking woman on the platform.

Here's the thing: I followed this mouse, it stopped and looked at me, and I actually said "Oh my gosh - Hello!" I wanted to cup my hands and see if I could pick it up - AND then this thought occurred to me: "What the HELL going on?" The mouse, being the smart one, ran away, and I stood there wondering how such a tiny guy survives - I'm sure it's not easy to hide without a lot of trash around for cover, to dart around under. I felt strange and weird, in a way that I couldn't put my finger on it and then I realized; oh my good Lord, I'm worried about this baby mouse-rat surviving in downtown Vancouver.

I walked on towards Granville skytrain slowly, making sure I had my ticket in my hand as twice now I've accidentally been on a moving train before realizing I had not validated my ticket ("Ahhh, I'm sorry officer, I'm a little out of it, I just got back into town and while I'm late paying my taxes this year can I just say that if any of my taxpayer monies go towards paying for you to patrol skytrain for people who don't pay for their fare I think that's fishing ridiculous.")

And all I kept thinking was abi kya? Kya the hell waa?

Now what? What the hell happened?

Not Yet Famous Last Words

For those of you who know my fabulous roommate, this exchange may not surprise you, but for those who don't, Caroline is a creative soul with much insight, and bahut genius.

To set the scene, first full day back, first FULL POWER day back and everything was normal (whatever that means) and fine. At around 4 in the afternoon I was calculating it was really 5 a.m. for my body and that I should go to bed, that it might help me stop walking into the walls. I decided to get into the bath instead. I flipped through a magazine and at some point burst into tears. Then I crawled over to bed, and then, Thank God Caroline (her full Christian name. I know! I thought it was weird that her parents gave her a Christian name too, especially when she's Jewish) came home.

So I got up and followed her into the living room because now I don't have to sit by myself with these thoughts any more. I mean mostly. I mean, now, or then, yesterday, she was there and I was extremely grateful.

This is my favourite excerpt our conversation (where I don't think I made much sense but just kept going on about feeling at a loss and clueless and confused and no idea what happens next and how I felt so alone in India and well, you've read it all before) :

Caroline: We're all creatures that are going to die-

Eufemia: That doesn't make me feel any better-

Caroline: But I think that that's a good thing

Om Shanti Om

After 53+ hours of traveling: train, plane and stop-overs, I'm home.

During those 53 hours I couldn't sleep, but thrice I shut my eyes and then my mouth fell open and I started drooling while sitting straight up in my seat. I believe I nabbed good 4 hours of rest that way. I wanted to stretch out at several stop-over points but was too worried about falling completely into the oblivion of dream-land and missing the connecting flights. ("I'm sorry, why is this called a connecting flight if I have to wait many hours for it? Where's the connection, exactly?")

It was a very sunny day, with some clouds. The Captain said it was 9 degrees outside. I looked down at my purple flip-flops. Then I looked around and saw everyone was better prepared for the weather than I was.

No matter, my friend God bless Jenn (That's her full Christian name, 'God bless Jenn') was there with Thrasso (surprise! - and fyi his full name is Om Namo Thrasso) and they hussled me home quick and fast. Jenn asked if I wanted to have a shower, and I was awake enough to realize it wasn't just a question but a matter of dire importance when I'd been wearing the same clothes for the last 3 days, and on the first day it had been 42 degrees - in the shade. On the second, 37.

And how do I repay such dear friends? I made them watch the 'Pain of Disco' sequence from Om Shanti Om. I can now sing this part in Hindi: My heart is full with the pain of disco, pain of disco, pain of disco. At least I think I can, and who is going to correct me?

Exactly.

Sigh.

Who?

Then I got dressed as best I could in a combination of clothes left behind and shoes from Caroline and went for some tea with said friends. Thrasso commented: You look like you fell down in Value Village. Even though it was 3 p.m Thursday, it was really 4 a.m. Friday India time, and I thought I was doing quite well, even if I couldn't finish a sentence without trailing off and wondering what words meant what, in English.

Then I saw Cathy, and I had the same speech impediment, and then, I slept, after 64 hours of travel and reading and movies and trying to catch a rest and some sleep, I fell asleep for 14 hours. I got up a few times but kept wandering in a daze back to sleep.

Now I'm up but I'm not really awake.

And my heart is full with the pain of disco.

Om Shanti All, Om Shanti Om.

Singapore Same Same, Not on your Life

What is this weird Disney landscape where you can't chew gum, or you can - but you'll be fined if you're caught trafficking it? I'm sorry, wha? Are we still talking about gum? The thing with names like Hubba Bubba and Chicklets is illegal?

How 'bout this package I'm carrying for a guy I just met back to Canada as a personal favour because he seemed so nice and trustworthy - is that legal?

AND DAMN I LOST THE SWISS ARMY KNIFE AT CHECK IN IN KOLKATTA because I was that tired I left it in my carry-on! FIONA I'LL REPLACE IT! AAARgh! I was doing so well. That knife won me the Miss Congeniality award back at the ashram. (Holly won Party girl)

There's nothing like eating and watching an insignificant movie at 1 in the morning is there?

My ears were killing me during landing. Damn, damn, damn. This has happened once before and it was because I was getting sick, and even though my friend John who worked for Air Canada told me how to handle this, I felt like a dweeb so I didn't ask the stewardess for: Two paper cups, put a wet paper towel in each cup, cover your ears during take off and landing. See my problem? I'm not afraid of looking stupid, heavens, no. I'm afraid of sounding stupid.

This free internet's about to time out.

Sayonara Subcontinent

Here's the thing about the time stamp on these posts I've been making - they appear to be set to Vancouver time. Currently it's really Wednesday, April 30th, 4:07 p.m. in the afternoon of Eufemia's last day on the subcontinent.

Soon I will travel across the International Date Line into the future! I love that Date line! I lost a day coming here, so it's only fitting that I will repeat May 1st. My first May 1st will be a hazy skyhigh movie-fest, and the second remains to be seen. I will get to see and be seen by some dearly missed loved ones, Jai! (Praise be!)

Last night I took the Radjani Express from Delhi to Kolkatta, an amazing 17 hours because we were practically flying at 140 km/hour. Normally, that train ride would be 20+ hours so it pays to take the Express. Everyone kept speaking to me in Hindi, and here's what I could understand: "You" and "You?" and "You!"

Kolkatta train station was much less intimidating the second time around. I decided instead of hanging around Kolkatta with my backpack, big and little and yoga mat in tow, I would simply come to the airport where I could pass the 12 hours till my flight by just hanging out reading my book. When I came into the airport a curt armed guard asked to see my ticket so I showed it to him and he said "Singapore Airlines? This is night flight - you early."

"Yes, very early," I replied. There you go, Papa! I win! My father will never read this online because he hasn't even gotten as tech-advanced as owning an answering machine, so I'll just have to tell him by phone that I now hold the Fantetti record for showing up early. No doubt he'll trump it with some story about getting to the dock early to catch the ship he sailed from Naples to Canada on in 1965 but still, for a day here (make that 2 days, technically) I'll get to think of myself as the champ.

I'm quite sure I really overpaid for my taxi ride but I did talk them down, and when the guy said to me "Not possible, 200 rupees not possible madam." I said "Of course it is. Subh kuch milega - everything is possible, sir." And he laughed and repeated "Subh kuch milega."

Then, here's the best part, Holly are you ready? (Oh, Holly, how wish you were here for this!) This guy's horn seemed to be broken, so when we nearly got crushed by an overloaded bus, (less than a foot to spare and my driver slams on the brakes) he yelled "Way-hey-hey!" And when he nearly ran over an older woman, he yelled out "Whoa-ho!" And the whole ride to the airport, which was alot of dodging, ducking, and several near misses - he just kept yelling over and over, and that's when I realised his horn was broken because everyone else was just honking, business as usual. Once again, I thought I could be in Italy, it's so bizarrely similar.

It felt so similar I wanted to start yelling too: "Way-hey! Does your father own this road?!" (According to one of the writer's I met Sunday night, an ex-pat American living with his family in India, that's one of the main things people yell out here when someone is driving poorly "Does your father own this road?" Also, I noted he was right, as a pedestrian you just put your hand up in a sort of "stop, in the name of love, before you break my neck-" gesture and the traffic slows down IN Kolkatta and you cross the street. It works in Delhi and Mumbai too.)

Please note: I didn't even flinch when he drove on the other side of the yellow line, pulled up against a bus and started yelling "Way! Way!" at the car in front of him, another yellow-line crosser, in the full attempt to speed up the crossing of the intersection quickly and get back on the right side of the road (meaning, the left side, the correct side I should say) before the oncoming 6 lanes of traffic on a four lane mini-highway made us another everyday casualty of big-city life.

Okay, so uhm. I guess I better go because I'm running low on rupees and this airport internet is highly overpriced...It's only another 6 and 1/2 hours till my flight. I wish I had something profound to say. I can't even explain all the emotions I'm feeling in my journal. This morning I wrote: Well here I am on the train and soon I'll be on a plane. That's Nobel Prize for literature material write there. Right there.

I'm thinking of all the different ways I know to say goodbye, (and how much I dislike that word) and all the different times and ways one has to say good-bye in their lifetimes, some are so painfull and just filled with an overwhelming sense of loss, and some are short-term, simple, soon, see you later alligator type of thing. Instead of goodbye then, I'll just leave it with phir milenge which maybe you remember means:

We'll meet again.

In a while, my crocodiles.

This is Goodbye, Delhi

This is it.

I love this city, the whole 7% of it I've seen. I've probably seen 2% of India, so take my opinion with lots of salt. Just drink lots of water too and you'll be fine.

This is the tour I did today, http://www.salaambaalaktrust.com/ because I can't begin to put in to words what it was like. Nor can I describe what happens when you see a kid who was caught in a child labour situation re-united with his mother. (Meaning his family knew he was working, he was working to help them out, he got caught, and his mother was sent for and now the family has to promise that he won't be allowed to work, that he can go to school like other 10 year olds) If you saw the movie Salaam Bombay, the Trust was set up by the director Mira Nair to help streetkids, and is now managed by her mother.

This is it.

I should head back to the Hotel, pick up my abnormally heavy backpack and walk or rickshaw over to the New Delhi train station where my tour started this morning.

The direct Delhi-Kolkatta-Singapore-Korea-Terminal City express is calling. I should be home by Friday morning, 2 a.m. Delhi time.

I think it's gonna be a long night.

Would Somebody Shut Her Up?

Why do I bother? I appear to be addicted to the internet and this blog.

But I had to tell you my most exciting news! There is an article in the Times of India about the treatment of the mentally ill here! Like they said in during the Klondike Pyrite Rush: That's gold baby! This is now my most prized souvenir, I am so excited!

I was just going to take the article but then there was a man, the Restaurant Manager, sitting only 2 feet away from me. When I asked if I could come back the next day and pick up the article in the morning, Mr Restaurant Manager was so nice and said "Just take it now, because I leave here at 8 p.m. and tomorrow it might not be here," (Yes, I have ripped recipes and articles out of magazines in waiting rooms but I've got enough on my karmic head, don'tcha think?)

Sidebar: One day in Rishikesh as Vanessa and I were walking along, a passenger fellow on the back of his friend's motorbike calls out to us "helloooo, how are yoooou?" and I said "bahut atcha." Mr passenger asks, "You speak Hindi?" and I said "Packah," (definitely). Vanessa commented "I love how you did that without saying a word in English."

I was reminded of that moment tonight while I sat waiting for my food, reading the paper and the Manager asked me "Anything good in the news?" and I answered "kabinay" (never). "Kabinay!" He repeated after me, and then he added "You have a good accent."

I felt like I was walking on water.

Kabinay, if I haven't mentioned it before but I think I must have as I'm having a deja-lu feeling, is my absolute favourite word in Hindi, bearing in mind that I have the vocabulary level of a domesticated monkey. Actaully, by my calculations the monkey knows about 108 more words. It's my favourite because of the day I was using it and recognised it breaks down into the words kab which means when, abi which is now and nay which is no. So the word is full on, full power if you will: when-now-no.

How sweet it is, how sweet!

The Time Has Come...to Talk of Many Things

The blog stops here, I think.

You know me to be sentintimental. I'm a sucker for Bell telephone commercials, so it should come as no surprise I feel like crying. (It's just so inauspicious here, I'm sucking it up.) Over my blog! Well, it's been more than that.

If I can find places to post from, like during that 12 hour stop-over between arriving in Kolkatta by train at 10 a.m. and leaving Kolkata at midnight by plane, that 3 hour stop-over in Singapore and that 1 hour stop in Korea (Excuse me Captain but why are we bothering? Everyone just wants to go home now! Oh, refuel? Well, by all means! Can I just sit here and keep watching this movie because the airport lounge is nothing new, seen one seen 'em all) - I'll catch you up.

Otherwise, I'm going to try to stay hydrated and out of the heat - but I signed up for a tour tomorrow, and no doubt there will be things to say about that. The first thing I think I want to say is, how is it that after 5 months, many offers of boats on the Ganges, guided tours of forts and Camel safaris, I sign up for a tour the day I am leaving?

Welcome to the wonderful world of Eufemia.

These things happen.

By now we all realise my Bollywood dreams are dashed. No ability to speak Hindi plus two left feet and an inability to sing in high octave range spells doom for an actress. Sigh. Oh, the sad attempts at ha-ha's when one has a heavy heart.

One of the writers asked me last night: Has my country been good to you?

Yes, yes it has!

Now what would be good is if I learned how to be good to me.

That said, might I just add here that even though there were days of such breath-taking loneliness (I wouldn't have thought it possible - to feel so lonely in a country of one billion) - I knew I was never alone. Because you were all here with me. I don't think I would have made it this far without you.

How can I ever repay you all for keeping me in such good company? In such good spirits?

I'll buy some laddus.

I'll make some chai.

We can talk about it and you can tell me how.

And tell me everything I've missed, dearly missed, over tea.

Suffering is Optional

I moved.

I was going to die, when I got back to my room and saw that cockroaches may sleep a little but a few scurry in the daytime too. A few too many, really. Apparently their lives fall under the dictum "No rest for the wicked."

I said to the guy downstairs at reception, who was very understanding, especially because I was just going to his sister-hotel, the fancier Hotel Pearl Palace, "How do you say cockroach in Hindi?"

Deskclerk: "Cockroach"

Helpful staff: "Hira, you say hira."

Though when I said hira at the other hotel, as in "Possible room with NO HIRA?" and Mr Prakesh looked at me as if I was stoned, so I said "No cockroaches? Please! It wasn't the heat so much but them. They make me scream."

Mr. Prakesh was very nice NOT to say I told you so you foolish, foolish girl, when yesterday you here coming and asking for room, I told you the heat would be too much for you.

Because yesterday I was all bravado: "Hey, no, my family's Italian, I can take the heat, I can handle it, maahn."

He answered "You can tolerate it? Go see the no AC room hotel down the road."

Much like Aesop's Fable, the one about the Ants and the Grasshopper, the moral of this post is: it's a good idea to admit you're wrong when you've been incredibly stupid, but lie about it if it makes you feel better and blame it on the bugs - because there are no fables about cockroaches.

If You Looked in the Dictionary Under the Word Stubborn

You would find my highschool yearbook photo there.

Yessiree.

I'm sorry to report, here's the new score:
Eufemia 9
Cockroaches 1
Yes, it's a new game in Delhi and oh how the mighty are humbled. At midnight, when you've killed your 6th cockroach, you begin to wonder what you had against mosquitoes in the first place. Especially if they didn't carry Malaria, what's the big problem? The buzzing? Okay, that's supremely annoying but they can't help it. That's how they were made, it's in their nature.

On the plus side (is there one? Of course there is, there always is. Uhm, just let me think for a minute) I got better, faster and faster. Nailed them faster and harder, so that what happened with the first 3 cockroaches, where I killed them and then realised I clearly hadn't succeeded because the played dead for a few minutes and then got up and walked, or actually sauntered away, well that stopped happening. (Let me help you do the math: so this means I really smacked 12 cockroaches, but only nailed 9) I hit, they fell, and the when others came to attend the funerals of their friends, I showed no mercy, especially the closer they got to my backpack. I had a bad, heat-stroke type moment where I thought "You gotta show them who's boss." You know as well as I do, since they've stopped preparing to survive the certain Nuclear Holocaust of the 1980's, what with building their bunkers and scurrying away tins of spam, cockroaches don't work for a living so, they don't have to, so showing them who's boss was a waste of my time. They thought it was hilarious. I could hear them chuckling.

Eufemia to cockroach #5, because she's not getting on a first name basis with anything that has to die by her hand: I don't think this is funny, why don't you guys just BUGGER OFF! Fish fish fish!

Actually, there were several bad moments: I had to sleep with the light on because I could not imagine turning it off and letting them all run wild - as it was the light didn't really intimidate them much. Not as much as my shoe, which I believe they are currently meeting about in the bathroom and strategising how to handle the flipflop menace now known as "the purple bomber" in the insect world.

Then I couldn't turn off the fans, I couldn't imagine how to sleep with them on, but I could not turn them off or I would have melted. These fans were sold to this hotel by the American military back in 1945, when the soldiers returned and there was this boom and the old, indestructible stuff was shipped off to other countries - this was before disposable was a big part of our culture. In fact, I'm postive one of the fans is made with the old propellers from the Memphis Belle.

Somehow I woke up at 8:15, so I must have slept somehow though I have no recollection of it - and when I looked in the mirror this morning, it looked like I had a whole 15 minutes of well-rested sleep.

Maybe you don't want to hear this, particularly after a long, hard winter but - you know it's hot when you pick up your water bottle and, at room temperature it's like touching a cup of very warm tea. When you touch your bedsheet and it's hot like those eye-cover pillows people microwave and then cover their face with. When you wait 5 minutes for cold water to come out of the cold water tap.

In a way I guess this is very funny: I long for a cold shower. I never thought I'd see the day, definitely not when I started off freezing and trying to wash my hair and self with a bucket of cold water in December, because there was no option for hot.

Are you wondering about that "Cockroach 1"? At 2 a.m I thought I had a fruitfly on me, but it was a baby cockroach. And knowing what a cockroach egg looks like, well, it has it's pluses and minuses doesn't it? Shaking the egg out of the bedsheet but not having the presence of mind to flush it down the toilet, I realise that's another 36 friends and family joining the party in Room 104 any minute now. And when I went to the loo, seven of the smaller cockroaches had drowned in the toilet bowl over night. Perhaps they felt it was a choice between my flipflop frenzy or just taking the matter into their own feelers.

The thing about changing rooms is, first I'd have to go to a different hotel, mine doesn't have any AC. And after enduring the man yelling at me yesterday and trying to make me pay for a room I wasn't keeping, I have no desire for another scene. What is it with hot climates and hot tempers anyways, and did I tell you my theory that I should be able to prove with a history book, that thousands of years ago people migrated from the Indus Valley to Italy and this is why I'm feeling related to everyone on the subcontinent. I noticed it again yesterday, feeling like I was in Italy, while moving around in traffic, when all the street signs and lines on the road are treated like suggestions, not the law, but some suggestions say, on staying alive.

Also I can't really stand air-conditioning, I find I get sicker going from cold to hot than just bearing the heat. Another instance where I can thank my parents for the parts of my childhood that toughened me up. Built my character. This is like a Toronto summer, to the power of 10.

Four more sleeps and I'm home. Two sleeps inferno, one sleep on the train (AC!) one on the plane. There's that 12 hour stopover in Kolkatta airport, which looks as much like an airport as my laundry room but I guess I'll cross that Howrah Bridge* when I get to it.

Howrah Bridge: The bridge is a famous symbol of Kolkatta and West Bengal. Apart from bearing the stormy weather of the Bay of Bengal region, it successfully bears the weight of a daily traffic of approximately 150,000 vehicles and 4,000,000 pedestrians. It is one of the longest bridges of its type in the world.

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Outta the Ganj

Well, so. Gosh. I mean, really.

After all my talking to myself that I would spare no expense and blah blah blah, I cheaped out and asked for a non-AC room. NON-AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM because the cost difference was half. As in $10 for Hotter than Hades, and $20 for You will not expire of Heat Stroke before Dawn. Because some part of my brain went "You want 700 rupees for a night when 700 rupees was an entire week's Hotel stay in Pushkar two months ago?"

The full power picture, did I mention how often "full power" gets used here? FULL POWER! and it means something between "I'm excessively virile with the life force" and "Yes, we have electricity" or I dunno, I haven't quite figured it all out yet.

AS I WAS SAYING BEFORE THE HEAT GOT TO ME: it's 37 degrees Celsius here today. Now. AT 9 p.m. AT NIGHT. That's fishing Full Power, if you want my opinion, which you clearly do or you wouldn't be reading. TOMORROW? TOMORROW? OH I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED - Sunday afternoon is predicted to climb to 41 degrees Celsius. Perhaps I'll have to go eat crow and ask for the AC room. I understand it tastes like chicken.

And in some funny twist of bizarro world, when I finally settled on the Bless Inn at Pahar Ganj, just down the road from the Imperial theatre, I turned on the TV, ordered Chai (I told you, Main pagal hun. I am crazy - though word for word the translation would be: I crazy is) and toast and watched Mansfield Park. They're having an Austen fest on the History Channel here and Monday night it's Northhanger Abbey! It's hard to watch Austen - all these characters with fireplaces in their rooms - when your ceiling fan is going so fast it feels like it might fly off the ceiling. And it's circulating air that makes you feel as though you're sitting in an oven. Make that a microwave, on high.

Tomorrow night I'm meeting some writers. I am so excited! I must tell you, I nearly did my usual Eufemia thing and let my sometime overwhelming shyness overtake me so that I would just come home and tell you all - "Well, it was fun, you should all go, don't be too friendly with shop clerks and Arjun's your uncle. You'll have a blast." The thing I missed the most in traveling sometimes was the sense of community with other writers, particularly wanting to know where they hung out, what they did here. Writers! Creative Comrades! Children of the Revolution!

Gene Fowler is quoted to have said "Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." You tell 'em Mister Fowler!

Darn, I think I may have to leave the internet's cool atmosphere and head once more into the heat dear friends, once more.

And here I was going to tell you I would be blogging less in Delhi but it may be a matter of life-support.

Delhi the City, not Deli the Place I can Eat

Well I'm here, and I went on a bit of a spare no expense bender with taking a taxi to Hardwar from Rishikesh, and feeling mighty 'member of the mafia' in the backseat of that taxi when every other vehicle on the road had at least 9 people piled in it. But for $12 I got driven for 45 minutes straight to the train station. Where I got a porter for $3 (why haggle now? Besides you know I suck at it)

Here's something that weirds me out: I have had two Indians now refer to porters as coolies. I'm sorry, I thought that word was abolished when the British left and took their scones with them.

Okay, so now I'm in a ridiculously overcharged room, the reception guy, who bears a rather unfortunate resemblance to a marsupial, asked for a deposit upfront which I refused to give and it's getting late in the day but I've decided to hunt for another hotel.

Why the fish not?

So here I go, racing the Delhi sun and heat. Wish me luck.

!!!!!!!

As I was signing out a mousy thing ran past my foot! I am calm, I am calm. Wow, I forgot to tell you all that I was AAAAAAAAAArh okay - uhm, he's back- with 3 of his FRIENDS!. WHY God WHY do I wear flipflops here? Okay so I forgot to tell you that I was feeling pretty tough, since a lots happened that would normally make me jump outta my skin but I haven't heard myself scream for months, except for that incident last week where a monkey jumped towards me and Sarah on her building's balcony. When I say towards, I mean, right at us. We jumped out of our seats as he lunged to one side of us. And yes, he was baring his teeth. It took awhile for my heartbeat to return to normal - part of the biggest shock was hearing my voice scream like that, after not hearing it in many other instances where I could have easily hollered. (No, not the Drawstring-Cobra affair but thanks, I really needed humbing because like I have such a big eg-O! puh-leeze.) Anyways I just treated everyone in this internet to what it sounds like when I freak out and scream "WHAT THE FISH!" with my mouth shut. (Like this: MMMWHAAIZAT!)

Damn, it took me 20 minutes to find this place, now I have to scout out another place!

Not FYI but TOI

Back to the Times of India, since you may be missing these entries when I'm back. Okay, I know that's highly unlikely, I know, it's my own little strange obsession, this newspaper. Between this and the Bollywood movies, I hardly know where to go for help when I get home and start experiencing withdrawl. The food won't be such an issue as I'm still rice and banana lassying it- if you can believe it. I went salad-mad yesterday, fruit, Nicoise, Israeli, and my body said "No salad for you!"

May I just say here, it's a weird and at times morbid obsession - it ain't pretty. I found one article on a support group for women suffering from depression, and that's been worth the search. But in terms of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, sometimes I feel like it's all just ugly, and this is why I dislike newspapers in general. Particularly fear-mongering, conservative newpapers. I know, picky, picky. And I go on some tangents, I know, you're shocked. These are some other items I found, just excerpts:

From an article about an accident where a young man on a motorbike was killed
"From the oral and documentary evidence on record, it can be reasonably deduced on the probabilities of the case that the accident occurred because of the negligence on the part of the driver of the bus, who admits that he used to drive the bus involved in the accident."

From an obit for a 25 year old man: Always smiling innocent and lovely child was snatched away by the cruel hands of Destiny on 16.4.2005 vacuum cremated is filled with our Tears.

This falls under the category, some one needed to research this? Because why?
Experts: Violence at home affects health
New Delhi: Being beaten up at home could be making Indian women and children frail and undernourished. In an interesting research, a team of social scientists from Harvard School of Public Health has for the fist time found a strong association between domestion violence and chronic malnutrition among Indian women and children.

The most disturbing thing for me is there's no place where it says "If you know someone who is being abused, this is where they can go for help" or even "Call this helpline number." I feel very touchy on this subject- as in stay away from it, don't touch it. I feel as though I'm walking on molten lava. Do I call up Harvard and say "What do you geniuses do for an encore? Tell me, is there a correlation between drought and famine?"

Now this is something else we're talking about: violence, extreme violence, accepted as a part of every day life. When you see this news in the West, here's the part that's same same no different: Violence against women as if it's an understandable given. As if a crime of murdering or raping your girlfriend/wife/woman you couldn't possess is a result of an 'understandable' act of passion rather than a loathsome crime by a cave-dwelling neandrathal who should be blinded and kept on the rack for 15 years, at least. Do not even think of talking to me about compassion until in the common language we recognise this is unacceptable violence (and let's be clear, I was raised in a home where somehow, even with a progressive father, the belief was women were asking for trouble, so I'm just as much talking about undoing my brainwashing) Just like I will not tolerate the Catholic Church telling me I'm a sinner when they have a history of protecting pedophile priests. [NOTE: I know the Pope will be really upset with me for saying this, especially when he's the number one visitor to my blogsite - but you know what Benedict? The truth hurts. Get with this millennia, wouldja?]


Enough.

My Last TOI post:
Gere's Kiss: Insane Courage
Actor Richard Gere, who until recently faced obsecnity charges for publicly kissing Shilpa Shetty, has called his troubles "a badge of courage". Gere made headlines when he kissed Shilpa, winner of the British reality TV show Celebrity Big Brother, several times on the cheek at an anti-AIDS ahow in Delhi last year. "It's a badge of somewhat insane courage," he told reporters during a visit to San Francisco recently, saying others had also been charged with similar offences in the past. "It is a very complex society," Gere said about India. It may be recalled that last month, the Supreme Court suspended the legal proceedings and granted Gere permission to again travel to and from India. Gere was visting San Francisco to attend a pro-Tibet rally.

And we're done. Full stop.

When Will I Learn?

Since I'm running out of time I'm posting the items I meant to edit and fancy up a bit more, so pardon my stream of bloggishness. I begin with an an excerpt of a conversation from my first days in Rishikesh:

Mia: Ap kaise hai? (How are you)

Sunil: You speak Hindi?

Mia: Nay..torah, torah (very little)

Sunil: Where from? Which Country?

Mia: Canada

Sunil: Are you married?

Mia: No

Sunil: Do you have a boyfriend?

Mia: Why?

Sunil: Why?

Mia: Why do you ask such a personal question?

Sunil: Can I have a kiss?

Mia: WHAT did you say? KYA, TUM PAGAL HO? (WHAT ARE YOU CRAZY?)

This could explain why I haven't really taken to Rishikesh, or technically Laxman Jhulla, at all.

Eight nights ago I had to crawl under the garage gate of my Hotel, Shiva Cottage, because Mahinder, who was already in his jimjammies of an undershirt and boxer style tight-fitting underwear, wasn't going to exert himself and raise the gate. I had 3 and 1/2 feet to manoeuvre.
He had the nerve to chastise me and point to the clock, and the sign saying the gate closes at 11 p.m. The hotel clock said 11:30p.m. Mine said 10:50 p.m.

Here's where you keep your eyes on the coconut with the rupee note under it because now comes the shuffling trick. This is another favourite of mine, how the hotel staff sets the time anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour ahead so they can close the gate not at the time it says on the wall, but whenever they pretty much feel like calling it a day.

Four nights ago, I ran over to tell him "Don't lock me out" since I was watching Om Shanti Om (I love this movie, love it, love it, luuuuv it and can't wait to share it with yaz.) and at 2 hours and 46 minutes, and we didn't start until 9 p.m, well, I didn't want to be locked out, and as I pointed out to Mahinder "sleeping curled up next to that cow in the ditch."

So here's what happens, Mahinder, who by the way called me a liar in Hindi the day before yesterday (for no reason I can ascertain) to my face and got the shock of his day when I said "What? Me Liar, YOU LIAR!" in Hindi and then I added "you jerk" in English because I have avoided learning the really bad terms in Hindi for just such reasons. As you can see, my temperament has not exactly relaxed by 2 months of yoga and now being next to the spiritual flow of the Ganga.

As I was saying, Mahinder walks me back to the restaurant, which was totally unnecessary but clearly the young man has a chivalrous-let's-hope-everyone-thinks-I'm-sexing-this-lady-devil-may-care-attitude-about-it all. He sees I'm watching the movie with some friends. He says "okay you midnight after come, okay?" and then when I return I see he's left the gate 2 feet open, so I have to push my backpack through and then crawl under, head first. The next day I say "thank you so much for leaving the gate open for me."

What a peach.

There are days here when I wish I was talking martial arts classes, in a kind of "Yoga? fuggedaboutit-" way. Many days, in fact. It's on my mind especially now that I need to arrange getting to Delhi and being there for a few days on my own. Om Shanti indeed.

My new favourite saying, taken from Om Shanti Om of course: What the fish? This is said in English. Several times. You know what they mean, and so do I.

What the fish?!

By the Banks of the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept

Eufemia, to the ceiling: Papa, I'm awake, wide awake again. It's the middle of the night, actually morning, and Rishikesh is closed, I mean I feel like all of India is closed. It's unbelievably quiet, for India.

Papa from inside my neural pathways: E perche piangi, chittalone, tesoro perche stai piangiare? (Why do you cry, little one? Dearest why are you crying?)

Eufemia: It's 3 a.m. and all I want to do is pick up the phone and call you when it's like this, so quiet. And when I'm like this, so restless. And because I can't call, all I can think about is the day I won't be able to call you at all.

Papa: That's life chittalone. Ma nin pensare questi cose mo. Ti da dormire. (But don't think of these things now. You need to sleep)

Eufemia: I'm trying.

Papa: I see. Tonight you drink two milk espresso after 8 o'clock, I don't think like this you try very good.

Eufemia: I had a craving. For the familiar, for your company.

Papa: And now again you no can sleep.

Eufemia: No. And I was, I am feeling a little scared. Delhi! By myself!

Papa: It's better you no tell me these things.

Eufemia: Don't worry, I won't.*

Blogger's note: Real Papa thinks I've been travelling with the same friend for these past 5 months, though he asks questions all the time, the same questions I would ask if I suspected my daughter was fudging the truth to keep me sane and happy. The same questions I would ask if I heard the same exhaustion, loneliness and fear in her voice he sometimes hears in mine. I do my best but some things slip through. Neural Pathways Papa, being a holographic, holo-deck kinda Dad, can do no other than represent the real McCoy.

Eufemia: Yesterday, I washed my face in the Ganga.

Papa: Is this why you no can sleep? No, I think it's the espressos.

Eufemia: Yes, you're right. It's the coffee.

Papa: I can hear all these thinking inside your head with me. You thinking too much. What quiet India? You hear? You here is make lots of noise for you.

Eufemia: Yes, I know.

And for the third time since midnight I get up and turn on the lights. The clock says it's now 3:15 in the morning. Six more hours before my favourite cafe opens. Six more hours before I can order a banana lassi. I do what I always do when I get stuck like this without a book because I have clearly taken leave of my senses: write it down, write it down, write it all down.

By the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept
For all the things I did and did not do
for what I accomplished and what I did not
for the beggars I helped and those I ignored
for the friends I made and the ones I didn't
for the books I read and the ones I skipped
for the sun, the moon and the stars
for the sleepless nights and nights of supreme slumber
for the dreams I remembered and the ones that disappered
for the food I ate and the meals I missed
to say nothing of the ideas I barely digested
for the past that wasn't and the future that isn't
for struggling so hard to be here now
again and again
for the feelings of familiarity and the sense of contempt it breeds
for the feelings of alienation and the sense of longing it brings
for belonging nowhere and everywhere
at the same time
for being born in the First World
to parents from the Third World
and never fully realising before
these blessings were second to none

Papa: Okay, Dante, now go sleep.

Close But No Banana Lassi

Just kidding. Here's a recipe for you, complete with some Indian words:

Banana Lassi
1 cup Curd (Dahi, plain non-fat Yogurt)
1 peeled and sliced ripe Banana (Kela)
2 tblsp Sugar (Cheeni) or to taste
1/4th tsp Cardamom Powder (Elaichi Powder) optional
Few Ice-cubes

How to make the Banana lassi:
Combine all ingredients and blend until smooth in a blender. Add the ice cubes last, adjust to your preference of liquidity. Pour in glasses with straws and serve chilled.

Greetings and Salutations

Tena yistilign. This is how you would greet someone in Ethiopia. It means May God give you health.

The reply is Egziebher yimesgen, thanks be to God. Apparently there are several options in Ethiopia, even one that sounds phonetically like Shalom, and it means God give you peace.

And so I have decided that Hello and Goodbye truly, there is no doubt in my mind, absolutely suck.

There was that woman in Texas years ago who tried to petition her town (and later the world) to start saying Heaven-O because Hell-O was such a negative greeting - what with bringing to mind Lucifer and the hounds of hell. I thought she was a crackerjack whackjob then but who's to really say? Certainly not me. I've just found proof, again and again, that hello and goodbye are not enough and they annoy me. Perhaps I should check the etymology and then I'll calm down and be happy-hunky-dory again.

The reason I'm going on about this? I've been thinking about all my conversations with God, where I sometimes just launch right in "God? I was just-" "God, please help me understand -" or "God!" In the last one I sound so demanding, like "hey listen up! I'm talkING to Yooooou!" But you see the pattern, I never even bother to say "hi". Like, by now, if I was God I would be thinking that carbon-based brat is so rude, she deserves to get kicked in the shin. Clearly, this would be the all-punishing God response. The only real God response has always been "My child, talk to me. Tell me anything."

Beautiful as they are, I can't use the Ethiopian greeting either: "May God grant you health, God."

Did you think I was going to skip over the detail about my conversations with God? Nuh-uh. Some might call it praying and some might calling it madly petitioning for help to stop the unstoppable, the inevitable. WHATEVER. I've asked for lots of help, in the form of a good night's sleep, a reprieve or the total cessation of renal function failure, for a lightning bolt to strike the room next door and carve out "Shut the hell up!" in Sanskrit right above their door. There's also been requests for some kind of sign, some kind of guarantee. That the hardest conversation for sure:

Me: I'd just like to be sure I'm doing the right thing

Reply: What's the wrong thing?

Me: I don't know, that's why I'm asking you.

Reply: You need to realise, there is no wrong thing

Me: Reeeeah-lee? How about murder then, is that not a wrong thing?

Reply: We could do without your sarcasm.

Me: Sorry, so the right thing -

Reply: It's 3 a.m. You should really get some sleep.

Me: If you would just answer my question, I could probably fall asleep koi baht nahin. (No worries)

Reply: Blame and pointing fingers will never solve any problems.

Me: Can I tell you something God? You make me mental. Or let me rephrase that: you made me mental. Ha ha.

And then there's silence - because we get to a point where God will no longer dignify my comments with a response.

Then I just have to sit there in the dark, thinking positive thoughts like: "That rustling sound is not the cockroach that fell out of my facecloth when I went to wash my face" or "Tomorrow, I'll get more writing done," or "If that weasel Mahinder comes up to my room one more time I'm pushing him off the balcony"

Who knew that spiritual practice could be so all-encompassing?

My Bollywood Job Offer

Just kidding.

Back when I was trying to figure out a way to stay here forever because I love it so, which was also during my fantasy time as a Nobel-Peace-Prize-Winning-Fire-Juggler, I couldn't think of anything I could do.

The problem, as I see everywhere here, and the reason why sometimes you'll have a lot of fellas standing around watching an egg fry, is because there simply are not enough jobs for the population of one billion.

Today, I realised what job I should be offered - only it would necessitate moving to Mumbai and I'm not ready for that, but still, I should wait until the offer is made and see, I guess. I shudder to think the word is for agent in Hindi. Anyways, I'm not thinking actress, no, no, no, though a few of you probably knew that I harboured a secret dream of becoming a big Bollywood star and that why the Hindi lessons being a bust crushed me - but I should become a Bollywood movie copywriter. Seriously, they need me. (Arrogance is apparently a very helpful quality in copywriters, you need a big ego to survive in that ewww-dogs-eat-dog-doodoo world) Now that I'm on a bolly dvd collecting roll, and check this out:

AAJA NACHLE
Dia (Madhuri Dixit) She was the life of Shamli. And then she made one mistake - she fell in love. The town never forgave her and she never forgave the town. She made a new life, far away from her past. But now the man, who taught her how to dance and how to live, is no more. And he has left behind a job for her. She has to go back to the town...and teach it how to dance again. Radha (Dalai) Her mother may be born in Shamli, but Radha is so born in New York. She knows less Hindi than an Indian parrot and has more ideas on managing her mom's life than a shrink. The only problem is that Shamli is not in New York. And everybody except for Radha knows this. Doctor (Raghubir Yadav) Nobody knows what his real name is, but Ajanta's old caretaker wears a cap on his head and many hearts on his sleeve, all bleeding for the cause of theatre. He is Dia's

OH MY GOD! Do you love it? Do you really or are you just saying that? I have painstakingly written this out, word for word, and checked it twice to make sure it's exactly the way it's on the box. So, no period at the end of the last sentence He is Dia's, and it really says Radha is so born in New York. Caroline, I cannot wait to watch this with you. (Am I being pushy?) Okay, okay, one more, one more!

JAB WE MET
Industrialist Aditya (Shahid Kapur) Feels Defeated As The Girl He Loves Is Getting Married. He Drifts Out Of The Gathering, And Finds HImself On a Train, Speeding Away Into The Night. A Young Girl Geeta (Kareena Kampour), Who Is Leaving Mumbai To Elope With Her Boyfriend, Meets Aditya. She Irritates Him To The Point Of Leaving The Train. They Are Stranded On a Desolate Station, Without Luggage or Money. They Reach Ambala, Her House, Through Highs And Lows, Only To Be Mistaken As Lovers By The Family. Geet Then Plans To Run Away To Manali To Meet The Man Of Her Dreams. By Manali, He Has Begun To See Her In A Different Way. To Realize Later That Her Boyfriend Had Not Accepted Her. And She Was Missin. Her Family Traces Him To Get Her Back. It Is Up To Her To Tell Her Family The Truth. Only That She Realizes That The Misconception Was The Truth.. And

That one was way harder to type, cleeeear-ly. I KNOW - Ouch, it hurts to read and to type. Cath, we'll continue our chick-flick-in-times-of-distress-or-whenever-I-damn-well-feel-like-it tradition with this one, 'kay?

This is the last one and it's just an excerpt because it's so poorly done I can barely read it:

JODHAA AKBAR
Let's get one thing straight: You haven't watched anything so opulent, so magnificent like this in a long, long time on the Hindi screen. It's not just body beautiful, but there's soul as well.

This one everyone wants to see because it was banned in Rajasthan. It came out 3 months ago, so I think the DVD will be of a guy sitting in a crowded Mumbai theatre filming the movie, but at the cost equivalent of $4 for three movies - (My inner thoughts: I'm sorry, what did you say? Four dollars for 3 movies? My gosh, I should be giving this guy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives just to make this fair, but he doesn't eat steak.) - how could I pass this shop-opportunity up?

I'm trying to organise a Bollywood watching night like we had the other night, I wish you could all be here. I miss you and will be seeing y'all soon, which trust me, I'm so looking forward to, but I hope you'll forgive my staring-out-the-window-missing-India-sadness. Vaness, I know you'll be here in spirit and part of Bollywood Comes to Vancouver Night, possibly also known Blast Your Chakras Open With Om Shanti Om Night...

Yes, you're welcome to come over and watch these movies anytime it doesn't interfere with my roommate Caroline's schedule/my schedule AND you have 4 hours to spare, which should also answer part two of the question: No, you can't borrow them. I know, you would think living out of a backpack would make me less materialistic, but after purchasing the Eddie Izzard Dressed To Kill Comedy DVD 4 times now, and not being sure where the heck copy number 4 is, I think I can say I've learned my possessive lesson.

You can still ask, but like Christopher Durang pointed out in Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You, where he noted that people think God doesn't answer every prayer, that is simply not true. God does answer every prayer, it's just that sometimes the answer is No.