—- May your cup of nog runneth over and your stocking be filled with everything your heart desires. —-

Continued from here

Clean clothing. What a freakin’ luxury.

Dinner that night was out on the patio surrounded by sweet-smelling tropical flowers – none of which would have been blooming on December 6th back home.

One of the highlights was meeting a woman – an American woman – who was living in India as an ex-pat with her husband and 10-month-old daughter. Finally! Someone who could relate to the hell I’d been through – she understood how disgustingly helpless I had felt without a wardrobe full of clothes clean pair of underwear.

And! She drank vodka, not Kingfisher. We ordered Cosmos and commiserated.

*****lalalalala*****

The next morning, we packed and checked out of the hotel. The plan for Monday was to sit through vendor presentations from nine to six, then head to the airport for a night flight from Hyderabad to Bangalore.

Considering the fact that I hadn’t UNpacked, it was no big deal. However, the thought of checking my luggage again? I wondered if I could convince one of the drivers to take me the 350 miles. Then I remembered how they drove.

Instead, I threw as many clothes into my carryon as possible.

*****lalalalala*****

Back at the Hyderabad airport, boarding passes in hand, we made our way to the lounge (did I mention that I never, EVER, want to drink a pint of Kingfisher again?) for a quick bite (french fries!) before heading to security.

I’d forgotten about security in Middle- and Far Eastern countries. Women go to a separate line and are wanded/frisked behind a curtain. I made my way to the SHORT line (Ha! Take that, you penis-bearing co-workers), stuck my laptop case and carry-on onto the conveyor belt and slipped behind curtain #2.

My bra and socks (WTF? they were just plain cotton socks) set off every alarm there was. Fortunately, the armed, uniformed (and very bored looking) (female) guard waved me through.

As I reached for my stuff coming through the x-ray machine, her male counterpart (lounging in one of those old metal patio chairs with frayed webbing) stuck his baton between my hand and my bag.

You have fuckers in there?

Well, that’s what I heard anyway.

Excuse me?

I leaned in further to see if it was just my perpetually stopped up ears or if he’d really asked me if I had packed a vibrator in my bag.

You have fuckers in there?

Leaning closer wasn’t helping.

I’m so sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.

I tried, in my nicest, most non-threatening tone.

“Gawddammit”, I thought, “What now?” I had visions of being taken to a secret room and strip-searched or worse – never to be found again. Sweat started trickling down my back. What would Mr. Hot do without me? Would he mount a search like Liam Neeson in Taken?

I was mentally running through everything that could be considered a “fucker” in that bag.

My mascara was a little small to be mistaken for anything like that, wasn’t it?

Pluckers?!? Tweezers!?!

He gestured towards his own massive eyebrows.

Oh! Yes. Probably.

I smiled weakly, ready to hand over my favorite ‘pluckers’ just to get away from Major Manjeet. He laughed and told me, “Go ahead”

I grabbed and ran to where the guys were just exiting their own security lines and we made our way to the gate for the next leg of our adventure.

—- Did I mention that Kingfisher is not only the name of the national beer, but also the name of the airline we flew from city to city? —-

We now interrupt this regularly scheduled program to tell you all that I am attempting to knit this as my first “in the round” project ever.

The screaming you hear from the general vicinity of Ann Arbor, Michigan will be me.

You may wish to adjust the volume on your computer.

Protect the children. And the vodka.

—- Any hints for success are welcome and appreciated. —-

(Pattern From Ravelry)

The phone rings once at 5:40 a.m. and then stops. I try to get back to sleep, discover it’s useless and watch Juno. The subtitling is hilarious. “Shit” is what comes out of their mouths (it’s televised in English, but also subtitled), but the words on the screen say “Crap”. Juno’s stepmom bitches at the ultrasound technician and “Dick” is what I hear, but “Aggressive” is what I read.

By the end, I’m crying. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so flippin’ tired or because I still don’t have my luggage, but decide I’d better wait until I calm down before I call Mr. Hot. It’s after 9 p.m. at home, and I know he’s watching college football and sitting in the blue recliner with the pets. I can’t wait any longer to hear his voice, so I pick up my phone. At $2.50/minute, it’s a quick conversation, but I feel better so I get up, shower, and try on the shirt I bought at the bazaar.

Here’s what I discovered: Indian women have no boobs.

If I wear this shirt in public and have to sneeze, everyone’s going to see a lot more of the Hotfessional than they bargained for. I put on my (thankfully dry, finally) underwear, my jeans (these fucking things are going to get burned once I have more clothes) and the t-shirt I wore on the plane. My socks still aren’t dry, so I rummage through my stuff for the other toiletry kit I snagged. The socks they pack in those things are good for one wearing and that’s it, so if my bag doesn’t arrive today, I’m going to have to go barefoot in my sneakers.

I walk down to the front desk and ask about my bag. The clerk tells me that they don’t know where my bag is, but she’ll check. I go get breakfast and then head BACK to the lobby to see what she’s found out.

The B.A. desk is closed until 2 a.m. ma’am, so our airport representative cannot get your bag, if it has arrived, until then. We see by your records that you’re checking out at 8 am, but we should have your bag here by 7 am tomorrow.

I swear, it’s all I can do to not break down sobbing (again). I head back to the restaurant to have another cup of coffee and try to figure out if it’s worth the possible shame of exposing everything if I take a deep breath. One of the guys from work is there, so I sit down with him. One of our hosts comes by and offers to take me shopping. A waiter comes up and hands me a phone,

It’s the front desk ma’am. They wish to speak with you.

Fearing the worst (my bags went back to Chicago?), I say hello.

Ma’am, we’ve just spoken with British Airways and they have your bag. It is being couriered here and will be here and we will deliver it to your room within the hour.

Thanking her profusely, I hang up the phone, finish my coffee and dream about the conflagration I’m going to build when I torch these Levis.

Three hours later, I’m sitting here, still wearing these gawddamned jeans and t-shirt. As they say in India, they are “in-time”, but not always “on-time”. I just hope “in-time” is before we check out tomorrow morning or I’m not leaving.

*****lalalalala*****

5:00 p.m.

Oh mah holy hell. I have clean clothes. I may survive this after all.

—- The Bucket List was even funnier in its subtitles. Entire sections of the dialogue were just…missing. —-

• Home with my boys.
• Knowing that you all will forgive me for hitting “mark all read” and not responding to over two weeks of emails. (Wait, you will, right?)
• Football bowl games.
• Writing Christmas cards.
• Cheeseburgers.

—- Brushing my teeth with tap water instead of bottled. —-

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. Thanks to Schmutzie, as always.