Surviving India

Let me just start by saying I would be absolutely fine going to India.  No problem.

So I was in the kitchen with YaYa (Aaron’s mum, who is visiting from Byron Bay), Grandma (who is actually Aaron’s Grandma, YaYa’s mum), and of course Hannah.  I don’t know exactly how the conversation came up, but it went something like this:

Me: “I’ll do the dishes when Hannah goes to bed.”

YaYa: “I can do the dishes.”

Me: “No, I’ll do them.  What do you think I bought a dishwasher for?”  Of course the real reason I bought one is because Grandma kept doing the dishes before I got a chance and wouldn’t take no for an answer (and doesn’t see very well, so they didn’t exactly get really clean…).  We didn’t move in so she could help me, but the other way around.

YaYa: “I can hang out your washing then.”

Me: “I can hang out my washing.  Why does everyone want to do my work for me?  I can do my own work.”

YaYa: “You’re so stubborn, we’re just trying to help.”

Me: “I don’t need help.  Besides, I don’t like people touching my underwear!”

Yaya (laughing): “What?! You’re funny about those things aren’t you?”

Me: “What, I don’t want people touching something that then sits on my crotch.”  Not to mention, what if whoever was hanging out my washing had just been chopping chilli’s, or onion, then they touched my underpants, which then touched my nether region?  Yeah, THEN WHAT?  Burning?  My poor vajayjay would be on fire!  I don’t know where someone else’s hands have been, and it’s my crotch. Plus, every woman has those undies.  The ones you wear when it’s that time of the month.  The ones that inevitably get ridiculously gross looking reddish/brown stains on them but you don’t want to throw them out because you’re just going to ruin more next month.  Then when you run out of good undies because it’s been raining and you can’t put them on the line to dry, you have to wear those undies.  Then those undies have to be put on the line to dry.  I know every girl has those undies, but that doesn’t mean I want anyone to actually see mine!

YaYa: “You’d never survive in India.”  I don’t know where that came from.

Me: “Yes I would!  I’d be fine there!”

YaYa and Grandma: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”

Me: “What?  I’d be fine!”

YaYa: “People poo on the street, you wouldn’t want to eat any of the food, and the smell when you get off the plane…”  What, I eat butter chicken.  And Tandoori chicken.  There’s always rice.  And banana’s.

Grandma (who has never actually been to India): “It’s filthy there.  You see this brown coloured haze.  And people wipe with their hand.  There are dead bodies on the street!”

Me: “I’ve been to the slums of South Africa. I was just fine.”

YaYa: “India is way worse.”

Me: “You don’t know that, you’ve never been to Africa!”

YaYa: “Men come up and grope your boobs or butt or front.  What would you do if someone came up and groped you?”

Me: “Um…I’d slap them across the face.  What else would I do?”  Surely it’s not a common occurence for random men to come up and grope you?

YaYa (laughing): “You’d get arrested!”

Grandma (laughing): “The police don’t care about a white woman!  They throw you in jail!”

Me: “Whatever, I’d be fine.”

Grandma: “You’d be lucky to get out alive!”

Why does everyone think it’s so funny that I want to go to India someday?

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“Bum!”

After many debates, Aaron and I decided early on that we were going to use the word “bottom” for butt/bum/ass with Hannah.  I was in favour of the word bum as I thought it was the non-rude form of butt.  Aaron, on the other hand,  thought bum was the rude form of bottom.

“In Australia, bum is a bit rude.”  He told me.

“Oh, not in America.”  Or maybe it is, I don’t know, I grew up in a trailer, what do you expect?

The mobile home I lived in until 4th grade

I didn’t want to teach her a potentially rude word though, so, bottom it was.

“How’s your nappy Bubba, did you do a poo-poo?”  I asked Hannah.  *Checks nappy* “Peeee-you, that is stinky!!  Mommy is going to change your bottom.”

“BUM!”  She proclaimed cheekily.  I don’t know how she learned that word, but she’s been saying to for ages, and loving it.  Every time I say bottom, she yells bum.  She used to wave and instead of saying bye-bye, she’d say bum.

I’m sure my laughing when she says it doesn’t help things, but how can I not laugh, it’s so funny!  I’m trying not to laugh.  Let’s just say I’m working on it….

Colour: Is it a cultural thing?

“It’s blue.”

“No, it’s purple.”

“Whatever, it’s so blue!  There’s not a SPECK of purple in it!”

Aaron and I have had this argument a million times in the nearly 6 years (well, we gave it back for a couple years when we lived in the city, but you get my  point) we’ve owned the little Suzuki Swift Cino.

“I’ll just look up the colour in the manual.  Or papers.  Or something.  I’ll look.  I’ll find it, and it will say blue, you’ll see!”  I looked.  I didn’t find it anywhere.  I even googled it.  I couldn’t find the original manufacture colours anywhere.  So, I did what all rational people do: I started polling people.

“Purple.”

“Purple.”

“Oh, you mean the purple car?”

That didn’t go so well.  Surely I can’t be partially colour blind, can I?

Suddenly, I came to the realisation that the only people I’ve asked (the only people available to ask) are Australians.  So what if colour is a cultural thing?  Maybe, just maybe, some hues are so close that in some cultures/regions/countries, they are viewed as one colour, and in other places, the view is slightly different.  Maybe I’m not colour blind after all.

I put it to you, what colour is this car:

Blue or Purple?