The Van Morrison conundrum

How can a man who looks like this

sing like this?

And how can a man who sings like that, actually talk like this?

Crazy.

I've been drawing flowers lately

We put up my new flowers in the kitchen

Here is a closeup

I like this one a lot

This one too

This was my first attempt.

The broken hearts club

I am now living in an apartment where all three tenants are nursing serious damage to their hearts. And I always would hear what women say about these things, in these situations and all I could hear was bad dialogue to a B-grade chick flick.

But here I was tonight, sitting around a table with two beautiful women, inside and out, saying things I never thought I would hear myself say. And they listened intently and we all offered little insights to the other about what had happened. It is amazing how introspective and delusional we allow ourselves to be at the same time.

And tonight, instead of hearing dialogue that I wished Aaron Sorkin could rewrite, I found myself traveling the world and traveling through time in my head while we talked. I thought about all the other women in the world saying these things and sharing their hurt with new friends. How many languages this same conversation was taking place, over chais or espressos or margaritas or champagne. And I began to think of how many centuries women have been using the same words to describe where they are in the process of rebuilding and reshaping their hearts. 

And it just makes me feel that because of all this, we three are part of history. We are living the part of life that all women live and that this is part of life; this is supposed to be a part of life; this is what life is about. And that, somehow, makes it beautiful. Beautiful and painful at the same time. Like the sweet pain you hear Leonard Cohen talking about rather than the raw pain of Nick Cave. It's a pain that tonight I can sit with.

And while the three of us were at our lowest tonight, running out of cigarettes and grouchy that we went out on Ghandi's birthday which turned out to be a dry holiday, we were all talking about how these things change us. And this whole time I have been hoping that the next day I will wake up and be the person I was before. And now I know that I won't be. I will grow and change from this for better or worse.

But, my new housemate told me something the first night I met her, showing off a beautiful green ring with gold filled into it. She said that the Japanese make pots and pottery and when it cracks or when there is an imperfection, they fill it in with gold. So it is the imperfections that make it beautiful. I just hope that the same goes for humanity.

Hold onto your hats, it's an aries full moon

Aries full moon over Jaipur

The resident astrologer at our new apartment tells us that this weekend was the Aries full moon. we saw it from the hilltop in Jaipur. Not only is it beautiful, but explains a lot… if I believed in this kind of stuff. She told us that this is a period for intense change so just try to survive it until things settle.

Well, here I am, trying to hold on. New country, new coworkers, new apartment, new cities, sights, sounds, smells, foods. I just lost my grandmother. My heart is still broken. I don't know what I will see in this next month, if I will do well at anything or fail.

But, as Nick Lowe would say, "So it goes…"

Maybe it's the aries in me, but I know this is my doing. I chose this life and this job, and I choose to travel on the weekends rather than sleep in. I choose to keep my mind busy and my eyes drinking in new things all the time.

According to the website, "Under the just-do-it Full Moon Aries, what action can you take that sends a signal that you're moving past fear? A small step, if it's the right one, has the power to alter how you feel about what's possible." So I will be looking this weekend to do something that I would otherwise be afraid of.

But I am waiting for this full moon to pass so things will settle. But instead of waiting not he moon to get smaller and smaller, maybe I should be the one who chooses to settle down.

Any advice on how to do that? I'm at a loss.

Abby-snails inherited Bertha

An old family friend got a new home this week. You see Bertha, my grandmother's best friend since she was little found herself in a bit of a predicament. After my grandmother passed away last week, she didn't know if she was going to move in with my mother, my aunt, my cousins or my sister.

Well, it's only fitting that Bertha makes her new home in New Orleans, and I'll tell you why.

Bertha is used to living in place cluttered with knick naks. She would feel practically agoraphobic if the walls weren't covered with tiny shelves holding tiny objects; she needs to be in a place with peacock feathers and trinkets, and that weird sign with a headless woman that used to terrify me and Grandma and Grandpa's old apartment. 

Bertha is at home in Abby's house.

Bertha needs to be well-costumed. My grandmother would always dress Bertha for a birthday party or for Saint Patrick's Day. Sometimes her birthday would last a few years before Grandma would remember to change her outfit. Well, not anymore. Who better than Abby Mullen, the queen of costumes, to make sure that Bertha has a new outfit for every holiday. And, there are more holidays in New Orleans than any other city I know! …Just don't dress her up for Zulu, please.

Bertha needs to be with someone who understands her. Keep in mind, Bertha is now in her 80s–although she doesn't look a day over 2 – so she isn't used to change. She needs to be around someone who uses common phrases like, "I'm going to smack you across the mouth," or "Just wait until I'm dead and then we'll see if you feel bad…" and these kinds of things are not authentic unless coming from Abby, who somehow had Grandma's dialogue passed down directly, like a phrasebook in the genes (see below). I can see Abby someday with a crop of white, wavy hair, telling doctors and nurses that she is going to stick needles into her own eyes if they don't leave her alone.

I don't know how Grandma Clare was the youngest child because her and Abby both had an older-sister complex. Grandma would never share her strawberry rhubarb pie or her chocolate cake, and Abby would never share her home-cultured, free-range, mother-induced frozen yogurt. When either of them decided something was theirs, it was theirs. And no one would dare challenge them on that.

And so I am not challenging you on who gets Bertha. She would have been yours anyway. So Abby-snails gets Bertha. But Mogliosi get Manky. Ain't no way I'm ever giving her back.

Jaipur and the trip from hell

Let me just say this - Saadia and I had some great moments in Jaipur. We drank champagne at hilltop ruins watching the sun set over the pink city. We tried on jewelry and sarees that we could never actually afford. We photographed and drank gin and tonics by a swimming pool that I swear was out of "High Society."

Yes, we had good moments.

But our 36 hours in Jaipur were messed up.

Just a snippet for the curious reader. 11:30 p.m. Saturday night. Our tuk tuk driver brings us back to our hotel. He demands twice the price we agreed on, saying his price was quoted for only one person. Saadia says something that, I assume if I spoke Hindi, would be appalling. But it works. She hands him 500 rupees and we walk away. Saadia saves the day again. 

Back in our hotel room we are about to crash for the night, ready for a day of sightseeing and a bus journey back to Delhi tomorrow. Knock, knock, knock. The man from the front desk is demeaning I give him a copy of my Indian visa for his files. I don't have it, because I left my passport in Delhi. I gave him a copy of my passport but not of my visa. He proceeds to tell us that we can't stay here tonight if I don't produce my visa. Saadia interjects. (Translating from my unerstaning of her Hinglish) "What do you want us to do? Draw it for you? We don't have it. We have already checked in and payed for the room. It is late, we will deal with this in the morning." To which he replied, "Mam, we don't care."

So this is how I ended up texting the good Jesuit at my office at midnight from Jaipur, and this is when I get awarded the "worst employee of the year" medal.

Anyway they finally let us sleep that night, which was wonderful. Because between the tuk tuk driver taking us on a tour of shops we didn't want to see and asking for Saadia's phone number and our four-hour-turn-eight-hour bus ride, we didn't sleep a wink. 

But, at least I got a blog post out of it… 

Here is my video: 36 hours in Jaipur in 36 seconds.

a world of love

I felt so helpless when I learned that my grandmother died four days ago. I thought that being sick so far from home is the worst part of living abroad, but I was wrong.

One of the blessings I have realized living so far away at this difficult time is how all of the other people who live so far from home come together to support one another. I didn't tell hardly anyone about what happened. And without me asking, people in Thailand, Nepal, Afghanistan and India have offered Masses and prayers for my grandmother and my family. 

Yesterday, Fr Thomas gathered the four of us in the office for Mass before lunch. We played the Saint Louis Jesuits and I talked about her and we all offered prayers for her and my family. It was very special. All of this, with me never asking for anything. Everyone who I have met abroad has some similar story about being stuck so far away from home and everyone mobilized for me. It is incredible.

And last night I got to Skype into her funeral. I was there, tears streaming down my face, on the iPad listening to Fr Doll and my family at the Mass. Saadia made a good point. She said, "I know it's hard to be so far away, but imaging if this was 10 years ago. You get to call them and see their faces and see the funeral and be there in a way." And she is right. Now is the time to count my blessings.

I just wish that you all could have met my grandmother. As I told Fr Doll in an email, she is where my mother, sister and I get our chutzpah from. She is the example of womanpower that the next generation in our family has seen as an example.

A comic Abby made about Grandma Clare in 2008.