Killing Time. And Windows.

Prior to these latest, nearly decisive, primaries, Barack Obama was pointing out that, in the time he’s been running for president, babies have learned to walk and talk. HA! What I wouldn’t give for a job-qualification process that short!

In the time since I started graduate school at Stanford, my niece was gestated, born, learned to walk, talk, and identify the principals from both Winnie the Pooh and Dora the Explorer. And now she is two years old and expecting the arrival of her sibling on May 31. And that baby will probably be walking and talking before I’ve actually finished writing my PhD. In fact, by the time this India project finally becomes a book, my little niece will probably be horrifying her parents by asking for precociously-sexual “tween” apparel and her own cell phone.

Which is to say: this has been a week of waiting—not without some interviews or fairly firm promises of the same, but lots of down time, nonetheless. I’m a little restless and concerned that May has turned out to be a low value-added month in the field. But, hey, minus the waiting and the dead ends and the interviewing of the entirely wrong person, what would I have done for a whole year in India, anyhow?

It’s also been a week of maintenance. Just as soon as I start writing about having perhaps underestimated the competence of the Indian service sector, events conspired to change my mind back. Our internet connection was canceled thanks to an Airtel mistake, and then reconnected only after five days and a heartbreaking series of phone calls, hours wasted on hold, totally pointless home visits, and general misdirection. A highlight: a visit from a technician to confirm that our connection had, in fact, been switched off. Because, obviously, if I were receiving internet access without an account and, thus, not paying for it, the first thing I would do is call and fraudulently complain about not having service. I also like to buy the unlimited-refill soda at fast food restaurants and then drink only one glass of Coke, just to game the system. But I’ve always been pretty edgy.

Also in the “are you !@#$-ing kidding me?” category of high quality workmanship is my landlord’s house. Because two days ago I put my hand through the glass in my extremely poorly made window. (I only got a little scratch, no problem.) The window, which opens outward, was sticking against the sill and so I was banging against the frame to get it open. And the heel of my palm rapped the glass. Which mustered all the resistance of a crème brulee. Actually, I think the reason that I didn’t cut myself is that I didn’t put my hand through the window at all. I gave it a smart tap. And the glass could apparently only repel force = f <>

This is definitely not a case of not knowing my own strength. (I am totally up to date on my “not much” status in that respect). Because two of Merideth’s windows broke the same night when they were banged shut by the wind. Terrible.