Thanks Anne. Thing is, I don't think he's an ass. Just clueless. At the review when he asked if there was anything he could do to make my job easier, one of the things I said was to leave me alone for 30 minutes when I get here, to give me a chance to check emails and set a tentative agenda for the day. I still get bombarded from the second I arrive with, "Did you read that e-mail?" "We need to make sure we do this" "Later this afternoon you're going to have to go out and..." "I just forward you an e-mail you need to read."

Thanks, JZ. You said what I wanted to say, but with more eloquence and less ranting than I think I could've managed.

If only Flylady were a bit less mother-as-household-martyr. I'm going to try to use the techniques and ignore the subtext.

Oh, that's totally how I do it. With me it's more the huggy Southern emotionality of it all that drives me crazy, as in, "I left that place in part because I never was comfortable with emotional effusiveness, people I don't feel that close to insisting upon 'hugging my neck,' and the like. So I'll use the system, while laughing at the 'Purple Puddles' and 'God breezes' and cradling my Seattle standoffishness and Philly attytude close to my heart."

The problem with my bete-noire was that once she decided I was a screw-up, it was as if she looked for things I was doing wrong.

I don't think her dislike had anything to do with why I was laid off, but it had a lot to do with why relief was one of the first reactions I had when I lost my job. One thing I've learned is that I will not work for another micro-manager or anywhere near one if I can help it.

the huggy Southern emotionality of it all that drives me crazy

Oh, I understand this completely. Whenever someone tries to cutesy life-lessons up with little nicknames or sayings, I literally start clenching my teeth. To be honest, I think it's one of the reasons I drifted away from the church I was attending. I would like my Bible studies to have more snark and less sweetness, please.

Um. Ew. I hate to even bring the subject up again, but those dildos and butt-plugs do, in fact, seriously disgust me -- and not just because they're Christian symbols; I'm pretty sure I recall hearing that they also come Buddha-flavored, and that skeeves me just as badly. I think it's because, however little we know about any of these people, most reputable historians agree that at the base of the legends and mythologies are traces of real flesh-and-blood people.

But... but... but...

You say "those dildos and butt-plugs" as if they were a bad thing.... t tearing up

(Cindy is tagless again.)

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12/18/04

12/23/04

12/26/04

12/28/04

1/1/05

1/1/05

An Indian Wedding

The whole reason we came to India was for Mehulbhai's wedding. Mehulbhai's my cousin, my dad's brother's son. He came here in November to find a wife, was engaged one Friday a few weeks later, and was legally married the following Monday. The actual wedding, though, wasn't till December 31.

But an Indian wedding lasts three days. On December 29 was the Ganapat, the prayers for blessings from Ganesha (the elephant god). Blessings which left Mehulbhai covered in yellow powder. This is only for Mehulbhai and his family; Ashabhabi would be doing her own thing. December 30 was the haatak, a larger affair with even more prayers and ceremonies and blessings. It's all very family-oriented, with much respect paid to the elders. Hold this coconut, point it this way, put it in the fire. Far too much religious symbolism for me to get into, and I don't know what it all means anyway. I figured the actual wedding would be just as boring.

Boy, was I wrong.

It had been a long time since I'd actually been part of a wedding, of someone I cared about. I wasn't an idle spectator going for the free food. This time, I'd be close to the action from beginning to end.

Around one o'clock, the jaan began to assemble. The jaan is the groom's party, his family and his friends, who travel with him to his bride's village, where the wedding is. We had a bus and several minibuses. Mehulbhai travelled in a white car decorated with flowers. Before he entered the vehicle, of course, there was much other business with coconuts and flowers and various family members.

We drove to Bardoli, near Surat. There was a hall there for the first part, the pre-wedding really. Mehulbhai sat ona thronelike chair on the stage. His closest male friends and family accompanied him. Weddings are all about sides. The groom has a male side with specific duties and a female side with specific duties. The bride has the same.

Currently, our duty was to sit and drink fruity beverages.

Now, I don't know whether this next part is tradition or not. It might be. Mehulbhai quietly slipped away, leaving one of his friends to sit in his place. No one said anything. The bride's female side (her sisters, cousin-sisters, friends) did their duty and dragged his ass back up to the stage.

Then they left and came back bearing soft drinks. Weddings are also all about sweets. They tried to coerce Mehulbhai into drinking the ceremonial Coke (the bottle slipped into a jeweled cover), but he refused, over and over. It's a playful friction, and all part of the game. He finally relented when Ashabhabi's sister sat on his lap. The groom conquered, they passed out soft drinks to the rest of us.

Next up was an older faction of the bride's female side to feed him some more sweets and some ceremonial papad. Mehulbhai's bank was Patel, and in exchange for the feeding, he doled out rupees. Weddings are also about money and gifts. Someone put a gold bracelet around his wrist.

After this, dinner. And we literally stopped traffic as we walked down the street, the mass of us covering the entire left lane. Wise motorists shifted to the right side and created a makeshift left lane, whereas rickshaws, cars, and motorcycles alike came to a stop, unable to pass through the throng of people. Some tried to push through. Zankar Beats drummed loudly, making our presence known to all of Bardoli.

We had tables and chairs! Mehulbhai had a specially decorated plate and cup. During the meal, some more of the (continued...)

( continues...) bride's family came to feed him sweets.

After dinner, we stopped in a nearby relative's house for Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi to take some wedding pictures. None of that "bad luck to see the bride in her wedding dress" business here! Although, actually, that wasn't her wedding dress.

We went back to the hall to change. I had had a suit fitted in Surat. It was a color I can't figure out. It's purple, but not Crayola purple or Barney purple. It's between purple and brown. It feels like a deep, rich color. The shirt is salmony pink, and the jacket is buttonless. It's pretty damn sweet, really, but unfortunately, it was bloody fitted when I'm this fucking skinny. The pants were tight now; I wouldn't even be able to fit in them when I gained weight. And there was almost no breathing room in the crotch. I was suddenly glad there were no hot women in India.

Once we were all dressed, it was time for us to go to the wedding. Outside the hall waiting for Mehulbhai was, no fooling, a horse-drawn carriage, all decked out in flowers. On either side, women carried colored light fixtures on their heads, whereas men lamely carried them on their shoulders. It was dark now. Zankar Beats filled the air with drumming, keyboard, and singing. Boys lit firecrackers in the street and set off fireworks. Real, Fourth-of-July-style fireworks.

The procession began, with Mehulbhai and some relatives like his sister and my sister in the carriage. We moved slowly, as every few yards or so, we'd set off some fireworks. The lines of lights flanked us, creating our very own lane, signifying our procession as a no-through zone. Sorry, cars. Detour.

In the front, the boys of the village were dancing madly, jumping around in the streets like there was no tomorrow. Dancing in the streets. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, but it felt like it shouldn't be. People kept encouraging my brother and me to dance, but we resisted. Then a little boy pulled me in the fray. I tried to go crazy, but I merely confirmed that I can't dance, I can't talk, the only thing about me is the way I walk.

Mehulbhai came down at one point to dance with his friends. They hoisted him up on their shoulders like he'd scored the winning run in the World Series.

Sometimes the dance turned into a garba, where you travel in a circle, clapping to the beat. I couldn't figure out the steps, though. Something was throwing me off. A man asked me afterward, "Don't you know how to dance?" I told him I did, but they were doing it differently.

Firecrackers go boom! Fireworks make pretty colors in the sky!

I tried doing the crazy dancing a couple more times (where "tried" can be read "was pushed into"), and I began to get with it. Now the men and women whose names I did not know but knew who I was placed their hands on my shoulders in acceptance: I was truly one of them.

The next time the garba started, I watched the feet more closely, and I finally figured out what had been throwing me off. There were only four steps, and they did alternate feet. It was the directions that confused me. Forward with the right foot and a clap (right foot means clap). Back with the left foot in some fashion. Return with the right foot and a clap. Advance with the left foot. That was what threw me off. I wanted step one to be a clap, but it made me feel like you only advanced on the right foot. Now that I had programmed my body, I could move with the beat.

No one missed an opportunity to remind me I was next in line, and would I have my wedding in India?

Somewhere along the line, we picked up Ashabhabi, and she sat with Mehulbhai in the carriage for a spell.

Nearly an hour of fireworks and dancing later, we reached the wedding venue, whcih was erected right on the road outside her house in the village. As we arrived, our menfolk embraced their menfolk. Weddings are also about joining families. It was at about this time that I realized all these people would now be part of my family. Blood is thicker than (continued...)

( continues...) water, but Indian blood is thicker than crapshaite. I also had a small "Mota Bapa should be alive to see this" moment. Mota Bapa was my dad's older brother (and thus Mehulbhai's dad's older brother (he was the oldest of the three therefore Mehulbhai's Mota Bapa too)), killed last year in the stupidest car accident ever.

Inside, we filled the seats. Men on one side, women on the other. In the middle was a sort of gazebo. After a while, Mehulbhai took one of the seats. A sheet was held between him and the other chair. More blessings and prayers.

Ashabhabi had come out veiled, gone to the back of the venue, and then gone back into her house. We weren't sure what she was doing, but she finally did take her seat on the other side of the sheet. This was symbolism: first, you are separate.

When the sheet came down, both sides had relatives shooting Silly String at each other. This was symbolism: marriage is silly. Okay, no, it's just a thing, because now, there was a string tied around them, and they clutched two handkerchiefs that had been tied together. Now they were one.

At this point, my brother and I got to take seats up there. There was now a lot of gift-giving and blessings from both families. And ice cream. This was my first major interaction with my new bhabi, as she asked if I wanted ice cream and offered me her own. I had given mine to my brother since I'd tried some but he hadn't had any. I was about to take hers when a fresh one came for me.

Okay, so the shoes. There's a fire pooja, and you have to take off your shoes, cause, you know, God. The tradition is, the bride's brother (leader of her male side) steals the groom's shoes and makes him pay to get them back. The countertradition then, of course, is for us to hide his shoes before they can be stolen. We had a whole plan worked out.

I stood behind the chair. When Mehulbhai took off his shoes, he would kick them back under the chair, and I would take them and hand them off to my brother, who would hide them. But our plan was foiled! For as soon as he began to remove his shoes, Ashabhabi's brother ran up and started to take them right off his feet! Mehulbhai got one off, and I kicked it back to Kiran. No one noticed, as my sister created a diversion by trying to wrestle the stolen shoe away. But alas. At least he only got one.

The fire pooja involves the couple walking around the fire several times, and there's a great deal of religious symbolism. It's the last ceremony of the wedding. But not next to near the last tradition. It was time for her brother to negotiate his fee for Mehulbhai's shoe. Word was his target had been two thousand rupees. He only had one shoe, though, and he only ended up with five hundred, which was almost certainly more than the shoe was worth.

Now the families lined up, and the bride and groom received blessings from their families both old and new. I got in line to shake their hands. "Hello!" I said to Mehulbhai in Gujarati. "What's your name?" "Shut up," he replied in English.

This is when the crying began, as the end was nigh. You can say you're not losing a daughter, you're gaining a son, but they're thinking, "We are losing a daughter, he's taking her away to bloody America!" Although by chance, he'd picked a wife whose older sister lived in Grand Prairie.

Then, Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi went into her house so they could leave it symbolically. They both paid their respects to her deceased elders. After they walked out the door, they left their handprints on her house in red powder. The couple walked to their decorated escort and drove off.

This wasn't the end, though. They were being taken to nearby relatives of ours, who would give them water, etc., as per Indian hospitality. Her brother would go steal her back. Finally, we would take her from her home once again. It was being done this way for convenience, but to be hardcore, we would have taken her all the way to Toli, and her brother would have to go there to get here, and we'd come all the way back to (continued...)

( continues...) retrieve her.

Another reason it'd be nice to find an Indian girl. There are all these things Natalie Portman's family just wouldn't know about, things they needed to do.

Vimalbhai and I walked to her house, where we were given water, ice cream, and 101 rupees. Then Ashabhabi came out without a fight. We didn't have to do anything, but our presence was symbolic. It's this whole push-pull dynamic to ensure their daughter's in good hands, and I can't decide whether it's sexist or all pretty and noble. Does it turn her into a prize ot be won, or does it give her power to be the center of the ceremony?

On the way home, I thought about how much I loved my brother and sister, and how I had to love my parents, because you can't not love your family, that's what they're there for, they're there to be loved.

When we reached Toli, there was one more shenanigan in store: Nishaben and Jigna wouldn't let Ashabhabi into the house until she gave them money. Her bank was her younger sister Nikky, who, incidentally, was one of the less than ten.

Once inside, Mehulbhai and Ashabhabi paid their respects to his deceased elders. There were some more prayers, and some blessings for the marriage bed, and some more prayers, etc., the next morning.

And that's how you get married in India.

Trudes, I didn't say all dildos and butt-plugs.

t goes back to read about how you get married in India