Are All Princesses High-Maintenance?

The 1989 movie When Harry Met Sally spent a lot of time on these three deep, dark secrets about relationships between men and women:

1. Men and women can't be friends. The sex thing always gets in the way.

2. Women love to fake orgasms. Especially in restaurants.

3. There are high- and low-maintenance women. Note: The movie implies at first that you are supposed to want to be the low-maintenance woman, or at least the medium-maintenance woman with a good repair history.

I was pondering secrets #1 and 3 recently, in the context of wondering if perhaps I had bothered my previous cubemate too much. Example: My favorite pen that had fallen apart. This wasn't an especially a fancy pen or even a sentimental favorite received on a special occasion. It was a nice Pilot with dark pink ink - a color that is less threatening than red if you have to proofread someone else's work.

I asked the nice guy in the cube next to me if he was good at fixing things such as this. He took a look, saw my sad face, and said, "I'll give it a try." After a few minutes' fiddling, my pen was back in business. I profusely thanked my cubemate and then we both went back to work.

About an hour later, I became bored and decided that I hadn't played KnockOver with my cubemate in a while. KnockOver is when he puts unbreakable things on his desk, and I engineer various hooks, probes, and sticks-like devices to knock over just one thing on his desk. He had put one of those stupid "Hi! I'm a stress relieving object from a random consulting company!" objects in plain sight. Game on!

But later that same day, I wondered how much time I spend bothering this poor man. This is the list of stuff with which I have kindly asked his assistance in the past month:

1. Untangle the wildly snarled chain of my pendant necklace. I didn’t have time to put it on at home and just shoved into my pocket.

2. Tell me whether my hair looked better this day or the day before.

3. Debate why there isn’t a phrase for “good afternoon” in his home language. Hey, I'm trying to learn some of his home language for our next trip to India, and "good afternoon" seems to be suspiciously missing if you ask me. Why don't they care if their friends and neighbors are having a good afternoon? The people who speak this language place a VERY high value on manners and etiquette.

4. Pick up cheap tea bags for me at the cafeteria because the 'fancy' Tazo ones tasted like grass clippings and made me gag.

5. Loan me $20 when I forgot my wallet.

6. Tell me whether a particular new hairstyle I attempted should ever be repeated outside my home.

7. Lend me various plastic forks, spoons, knives, salt and pepper packets, and stirring sticks.

8. Tell me that the resulting swelling from my wisdom teeth extraction actually makes me look younger.

9. Fix any number of highly stupid things I’ve done to my computer by accident (such as making my Start bar disappear forever) that I was too embarrassed to call the Help Desk about. I mean, I don't want to get a reputation for being one of those annoyingly high-maintenance customers does ridiculous stuff to ther computer every day... even if that might be true.

10. "So I am trying this new makeup thing that is supposed to cover up dark circles better. Do I look any better rested today [this was during a 2 week insomnia marathon]?"

I'm going to blame some of this on my cubemate. I would never normally pester a male (or female) cubemate about most of this stuff. He had cheerfully offered feedback - thoughtful feedback - instead of some guys, who will just scream, "This is a TRAP!" and run. No, this guy would say, "That is such a pretty outfit. I think it might look really good with the hairdo you had last week when your hair was all straight and you wore one of those headband things." And yes, he's straight as an arrow, and newly married.

I shared this list with my husband. He immediately said, "That guy has my sympathy. Now he knows what it is like to be married to you!"

If I Knew Then What I Know Now...

I would have asked the the oral surgeon pull ALL of my teeth out and then bought some really cool dentures. Then I wouldn't ever have to worry about enduring another painful dental procedure. What if there is a root canal waiting for me out there? I could have to go through this hell -again-.

I am too old to appreciate a diet consisting solely of ice cream and pudding. I hope I don't have a cholesterol test any time soon. I'm way past the age at which chipmunk cheeks are cute.

If I were breaking in a new set of pimpin' dentures, I would never again have to consider, "Can I open my mouth wide enough to eat this?"

But I would also have to give up caramel apples. So scratch the denture idea.

I Think We're Going to India Again

Today, my niece Becky is leaving for a year in India. I'm going to miss her like crazy. Though she lives in Chicago and I don't see her very often, there is something so comforting knowing that this awesome person is nearby. Now she will be several thousand miles away.

In 2006, Becky went to India for 6 months for a study abroad. She studied in Jaipur and did volunteer work in the state of Rajasthan. The focus of her volunteer work was interviewing women in rural desert villages about their healthcare needs.

Since Ross and I love to travel, we couldn't pass such an opportunity up. I have wanted to go to India since I knew it existed. And we just had to go see Becky since she was so far from home. A friend of Ross' was also going back home at the same time for a long visit. We were able to combine the experience of visitng Becky and also traveling with Ross' friend and his entire family to one of the holiest temples in India - Tirupathi.

We flew from Des Moines to Chicago to New Delhi, India. After spending a few days in New Delhi, we took a train to a town near a UN-protected bird sanctuary and the Taj Mahal. Next stop: take train to see Becky in Jaipur.

The last time I had seen Becky was a few months before she left for India. She was this beautiful, brilliant, and somewhat bashful girl dressed in typical American college student clothes. And dare I say she loved to slouch?

When our train pulled into the train station in Jaipur, I saw a confident, tan, blonde, beautiful woman who stood leaning up against a pillar waiting for us. I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed in a salwaar kameez (the long tunic with baggy pants typical for an Indian woman her age). And she looked like she belonged in that place.

After hugs and hellos, she promptly took us outside the station to find an autorickshaw - imagine a 3 wheeled Jeep without all of the metal that makes you think a Jeep could survive a collision. Becky haggled with the autorickshaw driver over 25 cents just like a good Indian girl should, and off we went to our comfortable hotel. The night before she met us, she had stayed in a one-room hut in the desert with a family. Now she had switched to city girl mode. The girl had grown up on us. I was thrilled to see it.

In the picture above of the two of us, we are in the Pink City in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India. This was the first day I had ventured out in the Indian clothes that Becky had helped me to buy in Jaipur. The scarf worn across my shoulders is called a dupatta. I couldn't figure out how to wear the dupatta gracefully. In fact, it is still a challenge for me. Indian women who have grown up wearing a dupatta always seem to have it flowing around their shoulders just so. I always look as though I am about to choke - if I haven't lost or left it somewhere. And it is immodest not to wear it - which is my way of saying I look like the stereotypical Western whore if I am not wearing the damn thing.

After trying to wear the dupatta with style, I gave up. I realized that first day that the dupatta would win. It was going to end up in a ditch somewhere, or perhaps draped over a cow. I asked Becky to safety pin it discreetly to my shirt.

At that moment, I remembered when I first met Becky. She was about six years old and had come out with her family to visit Ross and I when we were living in Washington, DC. I remember this time with her when we toured DC because she was simply the coolest six year-old kid I had ever met. This was a kid who already loved pickled ginger. She was willing to try a few bites of Ethiopian food. She said hilarious things. She loved to read. She fought with her mom over what clothes she had to wear - no dresses, please. And fifteen years later, Becky was pinning my dupatta on me as though I was the six year-old.

I'm a total sucker for this niece of mine. But at least I admit it.

Becky's trip to India this year will be different. Her first three months will be spent in New Delhi, India. She will be part of an intensive Hindi/Urdu language program through the US Department of State. Then, she'll be off to Jaipur, Rajasthan to work on her Fulbright program. She is going to spend months shadowing what we would call nurse practioners/midwives in the Rajasthani desert. Some of these women have received formal training, and some haven't.

Becky will undoubtedly see things that most people would turn their heads away from in denial. It is impossible to live or visit India without turning your head daily away from things that would break your heart forever if you looked for even a moment. I am sure this experience will change her as much as her previous experience in India brought out her confidence.

Ross and I are planning to do everything we can to visit Becky again in 2008. We don't want to miss a thing.

More fascinating details on Becky's past work in India and what she will be doing during her Fulbright program: http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5780352420351837532&postID=7392565174999937170

Wisdom Teeth Begone!

I won't say the experience of having my ancient wisdom teeth extracted was pleasant, but it was far more cheerful than, say, decapitation. However, I started the month of November with five more teeth than I have now. And frankly, I think that is significant and that a pity party should be scheduled immediately.

I don't remember much. I sat in a nice chair with a beautiful view. The nurses hooked me up to the laughing gas. And suddenly, I felt so amazing. Who cared about the view? The view must be intended for the staff. Every single nerve in my entire carcass waved in unison like grass in the wind with the most intense pleasure. Why had I been dreading this experience so much? And why don't I go to the dentist for any silly reason and demand this laughing gas stuff at least once a week? That was some really good shit.

If I had access to laughing gas all the time, I would never be able to hold down a job. Ever.

The last thing I remembered is the dreaded oral surgeon poking me in the shoulder like a cow and asking the nurses, "Is she asleep?" They answered no, and then he popped the stupid bite block in my mouth. This time I didn't mind the bite block. It allowed me to relaaaaaaaxxxxx my jaw. And that's when my mind shut down quickly and gave in to whatever happy juice was coming through the IV. I didn't need to squeeze the surgeon's balls or anything.

When I awoke, I demanded to know when the IV was going to be started because I wanted to be sedated - damn it! But it was all over. All I could do at that point was begin fussing about when I could go home. They wanted to keep me because my blood pressure was too low. I didn't want to explain that the low blood pressure was because I was prepared to do anything - including acting dead - if it meant getting more of that delicious laughing gas.

Maybe I will get lucky and a cavity will be discovered during my post-surgery checkup next week?