Truth is Stranger Than Fiction

It's one of those strange days today.  My friend went for some laser hair removal, only to find out her appointment was delayed slightly due to the fact that four eunuchs - dressed in full sari's - were having their faces done... which made this bizarre story in today's Times of India even more apt.  (I had to look up tonsured too...)  But I'm not sure if that's actually as funny as the headline in today's Mirror:  Son Turns His Dead Dad into a Teapot  Gotta love the tabloids!

In Hot Water

Hot water is a bit of a luxury in India; we don't have it in the kitchen or in our bathroom sinks, but we do have it in two out of the three showers, provided by the ever reliable 'geyser.'  In the UK/India, a geyser, pronounced 'geezer,' is your water heating system, a small tank of water that you have to switch on to heat about 15 minutes before you need to bathe.  However, in the US, a geyser is pronouned 'geye-zer,' and is a gushing hot spring.

Well our Indian geyser was certainly a gushing hot spring today; in fact, in less than 90 minutes of us being out of the house, it had erupted and gushed gallons of water an inch deep in virtually every room in the apartment.  Thank god for tiled floors.  Thank god for inexpensive rugs.  And thank god for saddle blankets which soaked up a lot of it in one of the rooms!  It's not the first time the geyser has erupted, but it's certainly the most dramatic.  In the course of two years in this apartment, we've probably had each one repaired in some manner about half a dozen times.  And we will again on Monday!

The whole drama reminded me of the confusion over the US/English word geyser/geezer and its pronunciation:  Our friend Ben was visiting NYC from the UK and couldn't stop laughing when he saw the brand of water 'Crystal Geyser.'  Pronouncing it the US way, geye-zer, it doesn't sound funny; switch it to the UK way, geezer, and pair it with the word's other meaning, 'old man,' and you can see why Ben decided it was a great name for a bad drag queen.  I have to agree, although the name of the world famous Tupperware sales person, drag queen 'Dixie Longate' is certainly high up on the list.  Say it a few times and you'll get it...

And more shocking news...

I was mortified to see my home county of Yorkshire mentioned in the Times of India this morning - and not in a positive light I might add!  In an article discussing the contraversy over first-cousin marriages, the practice is mentioned as being "routine, particularly in tough-bitten regions such as Yorkshire, where the 'kissing cousins' concept is a piece of folk wisdom practically ingested with mother's milk."  In all my years, I've never heard of this!  I always thought that was associated with Norfolk, where it's regular to see the acronym "NFN" on school-childrens'/patients' notes, meaning "Normal for Norfolk."  

I see that the argument has been rumbling around for a couple of years after a British MP criticised Pakistanis resident in the UK for maintaining the practice, allegedging resulting higher than normal rate of birth defects.  It's certainly a taboo topic in many countries - I remember an Irish colleague in the UK who was about to get married to a guy with the same surname; I quipped, "what a coincidence."  She said, "not really, he's my first cousin."  They had agreed NOT to procreate on this basis.  

In the US, there is the hilarious 30 Rock episode where Liz Lemon finds out that 'The Hair' she is dating is related to her, a distant cousin, but in a country where marrying your first cousin is illegal, then even third or fourth would seem bad.  And chatting to an Indian friend who had an arranged marriage many years ago, we asked how long he had known his wife before they tied the knot.  His reply, "all my life.  She's my first cousin."  He went onto explain that it was okay to marry the daughter of your mother's sister, but not the daughter of your father's brother (or something like that!) and from a procreating perspective all would be well.  They have a thriving, highly educated daughter, so I guess it's not all doom and gloom for the gene pool as some people would have us think.

But in Yorkshire? Who knows.  I had to leave the country to find my husband after an exhaustive search in the UK - ha ha.  Maybe if I'd had a first cousin, I could have been wed years ago!!!  And on home turf - think of the wedding expenses that would have been saved.  Ah, now maybe I see why Yorkshire folk would do it...  

You Know You're In England When...

1. You can get pate in the supermarket - that's pate for dogs as well as humans - in fact, you can get ANYTHING in the supermarket.
2. You are driving along in bright sunshine then suddenly hit a freezing snowstorm.
3. The line for the Manchester flight contains at least one woman in a full 'leisure' suit complete with camel toe.
4. The TV is full of repeats, celebrity cooking programmes, and property programmes (with/without celebrity).
5. Wine is one fifth of the price of India - and 10 times better.
6. You can drive YOURSELF around the city AND get up to speeds of more than 10 mph.
7. McDonald's sells beef.
8. The temperature is in single digits.
9. The cows are ALL in fields.
10. Your luggage doesn't arrive when you do...

It's in my genes...

It's official.  I can't help being sarcastic, insulting, or just wholly inappropriate.  It's in my genes! News just out proves it:  British Humour Dictated by Genetics.  So, apologies to my global brothers and sisters, but I now officially have a get out of jail free card for some of my off-colour remarks and 70's sitcom style quips.  As Bette Midler (funny for an American) famously says, and I wholly concur:  "F@#% 'em if they can't take a joke!"

I left my appendix in Bengaloooooo-ru...

... not quite as catchy as Tony's Bennett's Heart/San Francisco version, but more factually accurate.  What began as a Thursday post-dinner, "ooh, I have a case of Delhi-belly," to a Friday night of, "ooh, I think I'm in labour but am not pregnant," to a Saturday, "not hungry, not sure why, not sick, but something's wrong..." ended up with me being admitted, feverish and rashy, on Sunday to The Manipal Hospital, suspected of everything from malaria to dengue fever to cholera (that will teach me to mention it on this blog!)

After extensive blood tests, x-rays, urine tests, ultrasounds, and a CT scan - and reluctantly being admitted to the luxurious 11th floor - it was quickly determined that I had an inflamed appendix - appendicitis - and it needed to come out.  (Image NOT to scale - and NOT mine!)

Redundant body parts:  I have a history of getting traditionally childhood diseases later in life - tonsils out at 21 and chickenpox around 25 - and of getting rid of unnecessary body parts - tonsils, being one, and I was born without wisdom teeth (you don't need them, we've progressed genetically since then) and even an incisor (when was the last time you needed it to chew up a carcass?)  So, getting rid of this useless 'appendage' was a no-brainer.  Except for the fact that I've never had a 'real' operation, nor have I ever had stitches (a fact I was quite proud of just a week ago... again, that will teach me to talk about these things!), and that it would severely curtail my extensive travel plans over the next few weeks!!!  Oh, and the minor issue that in the whole time in India I haven't even dared go to the dentist for fear of some hideous infection, let alone have someone slice me open, poke around inside, and stitch me back up again.

All roads lead to Yorkshire:  My surgeon, however, was pretty convincing.  A lovely man, who trained in the UK and of course, worked at Bradford Royal Infirmary in his time.  For those of you not familiar, Bradford is the curry capital of England and whenever I go home to Yorkshire, I head there for a curry and feel I have been transported back to Bangalore, although it has a greater Muslim than Hindu population.

Through the Keyhole:  In a speed not generally associated with India, I was whisked from, "ok, let's do it," to the operating theatre - via the cash payment desk and the 'nipple to mid-thigh shave' - in around an hour.  I was to be operated on laparscopically, which to you and I means, 'keyhole surgery,' not to be confused with the hit tv show, and would still be able to model for the Sports Illustrated calendar.  Should I ever be asked.

Luxury - at a price:  So, off I went, carted off from the luxury of the 11th floor - the categories of rooms at the hospital range from 'General' at $25 per night and shared with 99 of your closest friends to 'Super-Duper Executive Luxury Suite Type' at $300 per night.  We plumped for one at the higher end of the range, large enough to sleep hubby in the spare bed, but small enough that I didn't get exhausted walking around it.

Pecking order:  The surgery was 'uneventful' but, I'm told, absolutely necessary.  It was nasty inside there.  Words like 'puss' were used a lot.  Oh, and my colon had started to wrap itself around the nasty unnecessary organ.  Enough said.  And I felt quite perky afterwards, aside from laying in the recovery room for 2.5 hours alongside a woman who clearly didn't sound like she was recovering.  In fact, I thought a holy cow had wandered in there, the noises that were emanating from her.  And I had three requests.  In this order:  1.  I want to see the surgeon.  2.  I want to see the detached appendix.  3.  I want to see my husband.  I put this thoughtlessness down to the after effects of the anaesthetic.  But we'll never know.

Suffice to say that the 'third on the list' had heard of the successful surgery and run straight across the road to the luxury mall to buy me a fresh pair of my favourite PJs and some magazines.  Neither 1. nor 2. would have done that.  Without a doubt.

As I returned to my room, I felt comfortable, relaxed, and happy that I'd made the right decision.  And desperate for a cup of tea.  But that was not to be...

To be continued...

 

The Bottom Line

Having returned to Bangalore from a month-long trip to the US and the UK, I can now reflect fondly on one of the more bizarre activities I undertook, namely colonic irrigation, or 'colon hydrotherapy' as it is more trendily known now.  The practice of cleansing one's colon gently with water has been practiced for centuries, but probably came to prominence in the '90s went many celebrities, e.g., Madonna, extoiled its virtues.  I've also known 'real' people to have amazing results; a couple friend of mine who were getting married undertook a series of three sessions each (less painful than a pre-nup, perhaps?) and waxed lyrical about its weight-loss, skin-purifying, and all-round-invigorating properties.  So when my New York friend was raving about her experience at The Great Jones Spa and urging me to try it, who was I to 'poo-poo' it?

The process goes like this:  Arrive at fabulous downtown spa, get in robe, go to small room equipped with bed, 'poop-removing machine', and curtained-off toilet, switch robe around so it opens at the back (don't be alarmed, the PR says, "Client modesty will be preserved at all times...'), swing up onto afore mentioned bed in foetal position and get ready for 'warm water to be gently infused into the colon while your therapist uses special massage techniques to stimulate the release of stored matter...'  Of course, to get to this point, a very sterile, brand spanking new poop removing pipe (not official terminology) has to be inserted into your butt.  Enough said.

I am told that the process - which lasts up to an hour - can be quite relaxing, cathartic, and even enjoyable.  My first experience left me wanting to curl back up into the foetal position and go home.  But I stuck with it.  And came back for a second time.  And a third time - at which point, I'm told, the real old stuff that's clogging up your colon will start to come away.  By this time, I was an old-pro and having many successful 'releases', as the therapist calls them.

It's an odd feeling laying there with a tube up your butt as someone massages your tummy, talks about dairy producing 'toxic mucus', and watches bits of you float past at high speed through the window on 'poop-removing machine'.  

What is in there?  I've heard stories about parasites as long as your arm coming out (none seen by colonic-expert of many years, Brigit Krome), or whole mushrooms appearing more than a week after consumption, and even twizzler-type shapes whizzing past (hence the more affectionate term used by me to describe this activity - twizzling).  The scariest moment had to be when I used the in-room loo pre-my first session, only to see a whole Metrocard down the pan!  If that's not the strangest thing to come out of someone, I don't know what it.  Man, that must have been hard to pass.  Sadly, I think it really fell out of someone's back pocket, but we can dream...

So, after all this twizzling, what were the end results you might ask?  Well, with the help of this and some aptly named supplements called 'The Mover' things are going pretty well in the bathroom department.  Note: Brigit says you should go after EVERY meal...  And I honestly do feel lighter. The fact that after a month of traveling, no real exercise, drinking every day, and eating out, I haven't put one lb on will vouch for that.  

Would I do it again?  You can bet your bottom dollar!