So here it is and here we are and it's October and the first midterms are beginning and my place of bed and bread is in an uproar. Do you want mayhem? We've mayhem. Do you want foolishness? We've that in spades (right . . .it's spades not hearts or clubs?). These are the words that cause this upheaval in our otherwise peaceful existance: an American Heritage test. That's all I've to say about that . . .honestly.

A while ago I went to a (an?) Hari Krishna festival at this beautiful temple on a hill in the middle of . . . well just before a little place of dwelling known as Salem Utah, right by a llama farm. The place had an aura of insence and curry and fire. There were two parrot-like birds who claimed residency in the downstairs of the temple and the grey and red one would let out a high-pitched squeak every 15.56 seconds (which reminded me of the ringtone teachers supposably can't hear . . .my goal is to always be able to hear that ringtone) causing Erin to declare it a banshee bird. Did that parrot even know what it was doing? I hope it doesn't realize it's a banshee bird. We took our shoes off and stepped on the cool tile floor and for a second it was serene and peaceful and then you looked up at the pandemonium that unfolded before your eyes in the form of the gift shop: stuffed clean full of people, candle sticks, statuettes of elephants, tiny tables, tshirts, bangles (on sale . . .5 for $2!), post cards and of course racks and racks and racks of wearables. The beautiful saturated colors of saris blurred past your eyes as people climbed over each other to grab their favorite pattern and preferred size. We ventured in and I wondered it they put things in such close quarters to make you feel a small smidgen of what a real market day might feel (minus the outside, the dust, the beggars, the dancing plethora of language and humanity and basically the fact that it wasn't India). I bought a white tunic (which probably won't surprise anyone since I have a strange affinity/fetish for white shirting) that crosses in the front and ties. . .the best thing is is that I didn't have to search through the kabillions of racks for it . . .it just sat there on outer pole of one of the men's shirts rack patiently awaiting a Ginger girl to take it home. When something speaks to you in this maner I am a firm believer that you must head the call, because who knows what will happen to you or what you will make happen in that perfect perchase? Perhaps those things would occur without it . . .but isn't so much more fun to have the perchase as not (but this is only if YOU LOVE it . . .no one else can hear it for you . . .unless you faintly hear it and then they amplify the article's cries for you. This is why it is wise to shop with someone you trust.) We watched a pageant and then burned Ravanna in effigy all the while dancing and singing our joy at his demise. So there you go . . .a confirmation of something that I've always known in my heart: Gingers can be Indian too (or anything else they want to be for that matter)