All my life I’ve been saying that I want to see the world. I want to go to Asia, Europe, Africa, anywhere but where I am – which has been the same since I was a kid. When I was growing up my family took trips up and down the East Coast, I could tell you how many exits are in almost every state from Florida to Maryland on I-95. I loved this, but I was thirsty for more – I wanted to see the whole world, past the Mississippi, beyond Maine.
I almost got of this plateau that I’ve been stuck on when I was 14 and I left the country for the first time. I went on a school trip to France with my Latin class.
I had done it! I had taken my first step to becoming a certified world-traveller/globetrotter/global citizen. Unfortunately, since this trip there’s been a slam on the breaks of my travelling goals. I’ve planned trips to Rome, London, South America, and India, and for some reason every time it comes down to it something comes up and my plans are put on hold.
Ever since I’ve dreamed of the day that I get to go somewhere again, see another part of the world. I watch the Travel Channel religiously and document all the places I want to see, the places I want to eat at. And one day, if I have to sell everything I own, I’m going to go to these places.
Because of this desire, I’ve resolved to do something about it. Now. From this point on I make it a point to go somewhere I’ve never been every calendar year.
I haven’t gone anywhere this year yet so I’m going to California. I don’t know when, I don’t know how – but I’m going.
Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air – explode softly – and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth – boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn’t go cheap, either – not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination.
She’s in that phase where anytime she doesn’t understand what someone says she repeats it and puts the word you in front.
Now this would be all well and good except for the fact that everything she repeats botched versions of Gujurati words.
Let me give some examples and their translations
You bouk lage che
You I am hungry
You tandu pani
You cold water
You cavanu pathegu
You food is ready
You mai be hoon
You I am here
LOL I really don’t have any more words on this topic – I think it speaks for itself.
unpolished rice with only the husk of the grain removed.
I have a serious, hateful relationship with brown rice. I’m an adamant lover of Indian basmati rice and I have been since childhood. I also love sticky rice in my sushi…but brown rice nononono.
I found out a few months ago that within my body type I should try to avoid eating so much white food, which includes basmati rice.
No really, that’s what my face looked like when I found out that I would have to give up my beloved, beloved basmati rice. It broke my heart. In an effort to soften the blow of removing rice from my life my mom (bless her for trying) bought me a vat of brown rice. It was a Publix brand bag of rice. Now you see, anything and everything (in my very humble opinion) that comes in Publix brand is delicious.
Rewind about a month. I was sitting in my apartment and I decided to make myself dinner instead of walking the three blocks to the frozen yogurt shop and sating my appetite on that alone. I made rice and daal (a staple for any indian kid) and sat down at the table. A huge bowl of brown rice sat before me and finally, after a few deep breaths I dug in.
As soon as the rice hit my taste buds I began wailing. I DON’T WANT TO EAT BROWN RICE BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE FAT AND HOMELESS AND ALONE BECAUSE I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT WHITE RICE BECAUSE IT’S GOING TO MAKE ME FAT I HATE MY LIFE.
….Okay so that’s not exactly what happened. But I did want to wail and kick and scream about it. But I didn’t. Like a dignified twenty year old I ate my bowl of rice and then watched ten episodes of Hey Arnold.
Fast forward to today. My dad brought groceries home from the Indian Market (oh yes, the special mecca for brown people to shop) and what did my little eyes behold? Brown Basmasti Rice. Are you fucking kidding me?
I was being a terrible skeptic about this, based solely on my previous experience with brown rice and my mother told me to stop being a baby. Finally she tore me away from the book I was reading and shoved a spoonful of brown basmati rice in my mouth.
Joe Fox: I think you’d discover a lot of things if you really knew me.
Kathleen Kelly: If I really knew you, I know exactly what I’d find: instead of a brain a cash register, instead of a heart a bottom line.
Joe Fox: What?
Kathleen Kelly: I just had a breakthrough.
Joe Fox: What is it?
Kathleen Kelly: I have you to thank for it. For the first time in my life, when confronted with a horrible, insensitive person, I knew exactly what I wanted to say and I said it.
Joe Fox: I think you have the gift for it. It was a perfect blend of poetry and meanness.
For the first time in a while I watched Mary Poppins all the way through. I write this post about Mrs. Banks (the mother).
It took me over ten years of watching this movie to realize what an ironic character she is. She tramples about singing about women’s rights…and then behaves like a domesticated animal at her husband’s command. I do believe my favourite line is
Mrs. Banks: I’ll try to do better next time.
Mr. Banks: Next time? My dear, you’ve engaged six nannies in the last four months. And they’ve all been unqualified disasters.
She takes that like nothing – her husband treating her that way and then goes on to sing
Our daughters’ daughters will adore us and they’ll sing in grateful chorus, “Well done, sister suffragettes.”
Now that I think about it Mrs. Banks ALSO proudly flits around with her sash and ribbons for the cause until she hears Mr. Banks coming. At which time she removes all support for the cause and hurries the maid away with her things, saying “You know how Mr. Banks feels about the cause”. Obviously we know, because he’s a RAGING CHAUVINIST.
In a way, watching this as an adult is amusing for me because of the irony in her actions versus her words. It’s incredibly fascinating. It’s also very interesting to juxtapose Mrs. Banks against Mary Poppins and ask who’s more of a feminist – the woman who gallivants around singing about it or the woman who doesn’t address it at all? I really have changed since going to a women’s college.
STEP IN TIME.
Recommend books for me to read before my summer is over and I won’t have time to read? Please?
(and I swear, if you say Twlight I’m going to vom.)