Journey to India: part two

My last post was composed of what I had written in my journal while making my way from Toronto to Delhi. I had decided to keep a journal of my trip because it would make me appear deep and thoughtful to others. "Excuse me," I would say, "I must go write in my journal."

Anyway, the thing about a journal is that it only makes sense to have one if you are actually doing things. I am not doing things. Essentially, my trip to India has involved a lot of naps and some mild traveller's diarrhea. At least I think it is traveller's diarrhea. It could just be regular diarrhea. Either way, I have made several people very uncomfortable by starting to talk about it when they ask what I am up to. And yet I do, and also dedicate pages upon pages to it in my journal.

My journal entries largely talk about my poop or what I had for lunch. Some of them make note of the difference in standards of living between India and home. If anything, I would say that a lot of people in India are utilitarian. They make use of the space and resources they have to the best of their ability. Of course, this is a huge generalization, but I like making huge generalizations when I have nothing else to write about.

Journey to India: Part One

The plane to Chicago is small. So small that my already small carryon bag required checking for the duration of the trip. I am worried that they will forget to give it back to me and that I will have no carryon for my flight to India. If this is occurs, I will be pissed off.

They say that, if an accident is going to happen, it will be during takeoffs or landings. I am impartial to takeoffs, but landings are my favourite.

All of my snacks are in my carryon. They better not lose that bag or else, in addition to being pissed off, I will be hungry. I love snacks.

As the plane makes its way down the runway, bumping along as it goes, I can't help but wonder if it will add steps to my pedometer. I hope not. That would be cheating when it comes to the pedometer challenge at work. I plan to come in second place at work based on nothing but my hardwork and the time I devote to putting others to shame, not because the pedometer can't tell the difference between a plane taking off and my hips moving while I walk.

I always worry that I will vomit during take off. Actually, I pretty much just always worry that I will vomit in general. The flight attendant says that our cruising altitude will be 3,500 meters, or maybe feet. I wasn't really listening. I have trouble paying attention.

It is now 5 pm and I think that we are nearly at cruising altitude. The pilot says that we can now use cell phones. I wonder if it is long distance to call Toronto from 3,500 meters (feet?) above it.

The guy in front of me just reclined his chair. I may now officially be trapped in my seat. I cannot tell if this would be better or worse in the occurrence of a crash.

The flight attendant wanted to know if I would like a beverage with ice in it. I declined. I have seen many programs on tv that expressed how much bacteria is in the ice on planes. Besides, I am not that thirsty anyway.

We are currently flying over a large body of water and should be arriving in Chicago within the next twenty minutes or so. I am so hungry that I think my stomach could go on tour with Cher and provide back up vocals.

It is 6:03 pm and John, the flight attendant, has been instructed by the pilot to prepare the cabin for landing. Now, I don't want to be presumptuous, but I think this means we are very nearly there.

I get the feeling that the plane ride to India will be both long and boring. Especially if my carryon gets lost and I cannot have snacks.

6:17 pm: we have landed.

My bag is safe and back in my possession. I have found my gate, K12, and I am now seated in the waiting area. All in all, so far things are proceeding according to schedule, but I am hungry and have a slight headache.

The voice telling people about proper procedure to follow while in the airport sounds suspiciously like Oprah. I will further investigate this when I return home. Unless I forget (I will probably forget). As for now, I will wait.

Apparently our 7:30 pm departure has been pushed back to 8:15 pm.

It is now 8:03 pm and we have yet to start boarding. I feel this is a good thing because my stomach has been doing back flips. I am nervous. I do not really know why, but I am. I would just like to get up in the air and out of here. The longer we wait, the more anxious I get. I may end up popping a second Ativan before I even make it to my seat.

I was wrong before. I said it was 8:03 pm when really I had gone back in time an hour when I arrived in Chicago. It is now 8:17 pm Chicago time and we are heading down the runway. I made a friend in the lounge, but we got separated when boarding the plane because her carryon was just too large. I do not know if I will ever see her again, but I did give her my sister's cell phone number because she asked for it politely and I have problems saying no.

My seatmate seems nice. I am in 25H and he is in whatever comes after that. Though we have not taken off yet, he is already asleep. I have learned that we share something in common: we are both mouth breathers. Back when he was conscious, I confided in him that I have gronala bars in my carryon. He looks like a nice enough guy, so I told him I would share. I only brought the strawberry and mocha flavours because the other option contained nuts and I felt this might present problems.

8:35 pm Chicago time and we are lifting off... or maybe Chicago is experiencing an earthquake? 

I have to say that I am kind of impressed with myself for being able to write all of this legibly while barreling down the runway.

The sound of the plane's wings moving about reminds me of having my teeth cleaned at the dentist - whirling and what not. Thankfully, no one is trying to put their hands in my mouth. That would just be awkward this early into the flight.

Don't tell anyone this, but I kind of enjoy mild turbulence. Not major turbulence (that stuff makes me want to hurl). But when the plane jostles around just a little bit, enough to wake up sleeping passengers and cause them to make confused faces, I can't help but smile. It warms my heart.

It is after 9:30 pm Chicago time and dinner has been served. There were many different types of beans involved and I can't help but wonder if eating my meal will turn out to be a mistake in the long run. I plan to go to the bathroom in about half of an hour and then attempt to get some sleep.

The woman in front of me has reclined her seat. I would like to recline mine as well, but I am not an asshole.

It is 10:49 pm Chicago time, which is 11:49 pm at home. This means we've been flying for about 2.5 hours. I haven't gone to the bathroom yet, but I plan on doing that relatively soon. My plan of attack is to stay awake until about 2 am home time and then sleep for 2 hour blocks after that.

My nose is getting a little dry, so I think I will use the nasal spray I bought.

12:40 am, approximately: I peed in the washroom. It was tiny. It was wet. But it didn't smell bad. I also used nasal spray.

It is now 8:46 am home time. The cabin has been dark for a while now and I am pretty sure I have been wooing those around me with open mouth sleeping and mouth breathing. In theory, we will get breakfast soon and will land in about two hours. The flight really hasn't been all that bad, but next time I am putting my carryon up top. I cannot afford to sacrifice any legroom on a flight this long.

Stay Tuned for Journey to India: Part Two

Keeping You Posted

Guys:

I am leaving for India on Sunday.

I'll let you know if I get diarrhea.

We'll just have to save, I guess.

"If you need to," he typed, "take tomorrow off. We can't afford to get others dick."

It was hard (pun intended) to resist writing something witty back ("Has the price of dick gone up?"), but I did.

Typos are funny. Especially when they are from your boss.

To be fair, anyone could give me the injection

"Hold on just one second," I said into the receiver as I waved down a colleague. "If I wanted to get a B12 injection, could you give it to me?" I asked.

"Yes, that is something I could easily do," she replied.

"And would you have to give it to me in the bum, or could I get it in the arm?" I asked.

"I can only give it to you in the ass," she said, narrowing her eyes. I swallowed visibly before she took pity on me. "I am just kidding. I could give it to you in the arm," she finally said.

"Okay, thank you!" I shouted to her as she walked away and then I returned to my phone call. "Sorry," I said into the phone, "I had an important question. That was one of the nurses," I explained.

"I had hoped so," replied a voice from within the phone.

Sisterly Love

"Hello?" I answered.

"There is some weird shit going on here," she whispered.

"Like thousands of dead birds and fish weird, or is it something else?"

"No, like the power is off and I do not know what is going on. And then I turned on my computer and on the main screen there is a naked picture of me," she said flatly.

"Are you drunk?"

"No. There are naked pictures of me," she repeated.

"On the Internet, or just on your computer?" I asked.

"Do you know who took this picture?" she asked me, as if genuinely looking for an answer.

"Ugh, no," I replied. "You are in India. I am in Canada. I do not know who is taking naked photos of you."

"I am not naked in the picture," she sighed.

"You are the one who told me there is a naked photo of you on your computer screen."

"There is!" she exclaimed, "it's me! With my tits out! Where did it come from?!"

"I have no idea where it came from. And there is no way that you are not drunk right now. Are you awake in the photo? Do you appear to be aware in the photo that it is being taken?" I asked, but, alas, my questions were met with a series of indiscernible mumblings and silence.

A few minutes later, I think she said something about crawling under the bed to either hide or die, but I could not tell you for certain.

I am pretty sure this is her way of letting me know that she misses me and is excited about my upcoming visit in March.

Next step: get a raise

Each morning, the staff meets to tell each other how we are feeling.

"I am well," I always say, because that is the grammatically correct thing to do. Some days, I interject additional comments into my morning reports. "I am not sure that I am actually doing as well as I think I am because this morning, when I first entered the building, I realized that my shirt was on inside out. I had to go into one of the washrooms and switch it around before anyone noticed."

Other days, I tell my coworkers about shaving my legs or exciting things that I have eaten. "Here is the bad news though," I whisper, "when I got here, I realized I only managed to shave one of my legs. Guess which one...."

Based on the number of Christmas cards I received this year, I feel that I am fitting in well. I have experienced nearly a year of full time employment and still generally enjoy waking up each morning to go into work.

The cat ate my pot

The President is an addict.

There. I've said it.

One day, a coworker gave me a little bag full of catnip. "Here," she'd said, "I found this in my cabinet yesterday. I don't have cats anymore, so I thought you might like to have it."

And so I brought the catnip home and put it in the drawer of one of my bedside tables. I proceeded to go out (I forget where) for a couple of hours, trusting that all would still be right with the world when I returned home.

It wasn't though. I opened the door to my apartment only to find it entirely disheveled. As I am not always the best of housekeepers, this did not overly worry me until I looked at my bedroom. The cat was laying on the middle of my bed, eyes wide and glassy. Scattered all around my bedroom was catnip and shredded pieces of plastic from what had once been the bag containing the catnip.

Oh yeah, there was lots of cat vomit too. There was cat vomit on the dog's bed. There was cat vomit on the floor in front of the door. There was cat vomit in my closet. There was cat vomit on the top of my dresser. Essentially, the cat had made a game out of vomiting as many places as he could.

"You have a problem," I told him sternly. After all, he had actually figured out a way to open up my side table and remove the catnip from it.

Needless to say, I decided not to enable his habit and have since ensured that he has zero contact with catnip. And this all seemed to be working fine. The cat, no longer able to access his drug of choice, turned to other ventures and took up hobbies like pulling at my area rug and crocheting. All was right with the world again... until a few hours ago.

You see, Internet, it was a few hours ago that I entered my bedroom only to find my feline companion sprawled out on my bed, chewing on a plastic bag that contained some of the marijuana that I am obviously just holding for a friend. "You douche bag!" I exclaimed. "That is not yours!" The cat did not care though. The cat does as he pleases, and, knowing he is an addict, I should have known better than to keep anything like that around him.

I am pretty sure that marijuana does absolutely nothing for cats, but I will state that the cat has spent the last two hours literally running from one end of the apartment to the other. This is fairly standard behaviour for him, but usually he does not do it at 4 am (or at least not while I am awake).

I will eat a spicy tuna roll

It is my birthday tomorrow. I will be twenty-six.

Twenty-six, I suspect, is not so very different from twenty-five. There are no added perks with this birthday as far as I can tell, but, equally, I do not see any real downside to it.

At work, each staff member's birthday is celebrated with a gourmet cupcake. I had been adamant that I did not want a birthday cupcake. "I appreciate the idea of it, but I will not eat it. I do not want $2.50 wasted on something that I will not even eat," I explained at lunch one day.

"I will eat it," a coworker piped up.

"Instead of a birthday cupcake," I suggested, "when we meet that morning to discuss our feelings, I would like to run around the circle and get birthday high-fives from everyone." The table was suddenly quiet. I would have felt uncomfortable if I was not so sure that everyone was secretly cursing themselves for not having that very same idea on their own birthday.

Today, my boss is taking me out to lunch for birthday sushi, even though it is a day premature. "If anyone asks," he stage whispered, "it is a business meeting because we are not supposed to celebrate birthdays beyond the birthday cupcake."

In reality, my birthday lunch is less about celebrating my birthday and more about my boss's desire to try the sushi place down the street. "I've heard they have all you can eat!" he'd exclaimed one day. Ever since finding that out, he's been trying to casually lure a group of people over there for lunch. "You know what would be fun to do one day?" he has asked on more than one occasion, "if we were to go to that sushi place down the street and get some lunch!" He's also been known to throw out a casual, "Hey, how about, when we're going to have a meeting or something, we go to that sushi place down the street and just go over some notes. It will be lots of fun."

I do not trust his judgement when it comes to fun things though. Other things he has told me are high in "fun factor": Silent auctions, breakfast meetings, investment seminars, board meetings, award presentations and getting insurance quotes.

Aiming High

When I google my own name, I am often jealous of the lives of my name twins: A registered massage therapist, a gastrointestinal specialist, a general medical practitioner and body builder, among other things.

I would like to be all of these things at once.

I am adding it to my goals in life.

Street value or sentimental value?

Several, several months ago, I baked some cookies and sent them to my brother via Canada Post.

They were chocolate chips cookies, and they were made with a whole lot of love, a lot of chocolate and just a splash of marijuana.

I paid extra to have them overnighted because, after all, I did not want them to go stale. It was important that the cookies arrive as fresh as possible so that they retained all of their cookie goodness.

The next day, I called my brother to see if his cookies had arrived. "What cookies?" he responded.

"Are you being coy, or do you really have no cookies from me?" I'd asked.

"I really have no cookies," he'd said.

Upon calling the next day, I found that, again, he was cookie-less. And so, like any good sister, I used the tracking number I had been given to try to find out where his cookies were.

According to the website, someone had attempted to deliver my cookies but had found that the package had been addressed incorrectly.

Lies.

The package was addressed both very clearly in marker on the centre of its front, as well as on a sticker thing put on after I paid for delivery. I can assure you that the address was correct both of these places.

Regardless, the website said my package was returning to the Ottawa depot to be readdressed and then would go out for delivery the following day. Two days later, however, the package was still not in my brother's hands and, instead, according to the website it was on its way to Brampton.

Of course. Mississauga. Why not?

And Mississauga is where that package stayed, apparently, for a day before heading back towards Ottawa, where the website stated it was simply waiting at the warehouse.

Only here is the thing, Internet: it was not waiting at the warehouse. When I called Canada Post to figure out what the hell had happened to my package, they informed me that it had been destroyed because they had been unable to deliver it.

"What do you mean that it has been destroyed? Why would you destroy it?" I'd questioned. I did not listen to their answer, but it amounted to claiming that they did not know what to do with the package once they had determined it "undeliverable."

"What is the return address for? Is that not what it is for? As I paid for express shipping and had to give you all of my information, you very clearly had a return address."

Do you know what I think happened, Internet? I think someone ate those cookies. I declared the content of the package to be cookies and I think someone at Canada Post got hungry.

If that is what did happen, I hope they at all of the cookies at once and freaked the fuck out when the drugs kicked in.

About three weeks later, Canada Post contacted me to inquire about the value of my package. They wanted to send me a cheque to reimburse me for the costs I had incurred trying to be a great big sister.

Surreal Moments

11:30 p.m. on a Monday night.

Sitting, alone, in your apartment taking bong hits while watching a video in which the Sound of Music cast is reunited (after 40 years!) and singing Edelweiss.

Things I know

- All relationships are finite and invaluable.

- Sometimes good people do bad things.

- If you pick at it, it will scar.

- If there are dirty dishes in your sink and you leave them there, and no one except for you ever enters or leaves your apartment, those dirty dishes are just going to stay dirty.

- Happiness cannot be found at the bottom of a carton of ice cream. Temporary contentment can be, but it often leads to indigestion and cottage cheese thighs.

- Lying is not for lazy people. It takes too much thought and organization to be good at. Trust me, it is just not worth it.

- There is no cool way to choke on your own spit.

- At some point in time in your life, a dog is going to lick you directly after licking its own anus.

- There is no need to be embarrassed if you slip and fall in mud. Mud is slippery. It is not your fault.

- Adding chocolate chips to chocolate pudding does not make the chocolate pudding more awesome. You will just end up disappointed and feel bloated.

- Wearing white clothes allows you to fully realize just how dirty you truly are.

- At any given moment, you are exactly where you are supposed to be. Unless you are running late or are lost, in which case you should really have a map and learn to plan better.

- Breakdance cannot be learned through osmosis. You're going to have to practice that shit.

- It is best not to make bacon while naked. Especially if you do not even eat bacon and are just trying to be extra sweet. It is in your best interest to put an apron on.

- Even when the little man is lit up and, as a pedestrian, it is your turn to cross the street, it is important to look both ways. Some motorists are assholes and will run you down.

- Frequently, men seem to be unfamiliar with the concept of trimming their toenails.

- Saying, "Why me?" when something bad happens to you just makes you sound like a whiner. Why not you? Why not anyone?

- Being embarrassed about pooping is a waste of time. Everybody poops. You should be proud that you have regular bowel movements.

- Although they may claim otherwise, most people would eat a bug if you gave them enough money or if they were really hungry. Besides, most people have probably already eaten bugs in their sleep.

- If you get pink eye and you have not been around another person who has pink eye, you probably do not wash your hands well enough after you go to the bathroom.

- Eating fourteen hash browns in one sitting: better in theory than it is in practice.

- If you are somewhere that is foreign to you (specifically a country) and what you are eating tastes good, don't ask what is in it. It is sometimes better not to know.

In honour of my cousin's wedding

"I'm going to tell you a secret," I half whispered, "I am a little drunk."

It wasn't really a secret though. It was actually fairly obvious to most anyone within a 100 miles of me that evening. One whiskey sour, four gin and tonics, two glasses of wine, one glass of champagne and three screwdrivers will do that to you though.

"I am drinking on behalf of my sister and in honour of my dead grandparents," I told anyone who would listen - or at least anyone who looked like they may be judging me.

At the end of the night, I pulled my father aside and had a frank discussion with him. "Here is the deal," I said, "I need you to go get me pizza because if I do not eat something now I am going to throw up tomorrow in the car when we are driving home." I was anticipating a 'no,' so when he promptly agreed, I celebrated by having one last drink.

When I returned home a few days later, everyone asked how my trip had been. "Was it windy there? Is Chicago really the windy city?"

No, Chicago had not been windy.

The only "wind" I had experienced came in the form of an unexpected burst of air through a grate above a subway line. Accidentally showing strangers your underwear, while walking down the street, is a good way to make friends. Remember that.

Adjusting to being employed

As I sat there, in my skirt, I realized that, between my floor-to-ceiling window to the hall and my open office door, anyone who passed by could easily take a gander at my whoo haw if I forgot to carefully sit like a lady all day long. Sure, I was wearing panties, but the idea of my whoo haw was out there.

These are the kinds of problems I have been having at work - unintentionally potentially exposing my whoo haw to coworkers.