Incorporating and Ingesting the Being of One

What We Do to Stay Wahm

2010-02-13T18:51:00.001-05:00

She’s usually a frigid wintah up here in Maine, yessir. Cold dahk nights and wind wippin’ so hahd you gots to wear oneofthose face masks that makes you look like a retahded G.I. Joe or storm troopah or somethin. You gots to be bundled up real tight in ordah to stay wahm and make sure you wear your lawngunderwears undah your jacket or else you’ll be freezin’ your butt off, ayuh.

So whadda we Mainahs do to have fun outside but stay wahm in the wintah? Well, besides the obvious snow-mo-beelin, ice fishin’ and skiing (but that gets a bit pricey if ya goes a lot), we go smelting, ayuh. And there ain’t no bettah place to catch me some smelt than down at Jim’s Smelt Shacks in Bowdoinham.

Go there on a Friday or Satraday night and woo-wee! all us good ol’ boys and gals’ll be there just-a smelting and drinkin’ and havin a regulah good time. Now, you ain’t no Mainah if you don’t go smeltin’ on your Friday night, nosiree. Screw dat Mixahs bar where all dem kids go, no, we real Mainahs, we smeltin’ godddammit.

Jim’s is just a bitty little place in Bowdoinham off route twen-tee-fah on da Kinnebec Rivah. Theys gots ‘bout twen-tee shacks and they’ll let ya rent em for few hours and get ya smelt on real gud. Dem shaks have big ol’ stoves to keep ya wahm or cook some food on and little holes fer the lines to dangle intah.

Them boys at Jim’s’ ll give ya those bloodwohms (that look like little centipeeds and freakin’ gross me right out! One time I stuck one down the flannel pants of my friend and woo-wee did he dance! Those little buggers gots pinchahs on ‘em, they do. So watch out, k?)

Anyways, you gets yer bloodwohms, go to ya shack and stick the buggahs on the hooks, lower ‘em in the water and start drinkin! If it’s a real gud night, you can just yell acrossed to yer buddies and have a hootin’ ol time waiting to see who catches the first one. You do know what happens when ya catch the first one, don’t cha? Ah, really? Sheet. Well, if’nya catch the first smelt, well, you gots to bite the head off. No whinin or pissin and moanin’ just grabbit real quick like and bite the head right off. The little guys have just bite-sized heads and one chomp and she’s off. Fecking gross though.

Now, with all that head bitin’ and wind wippin’ like I’se said, you gots to have you a little something to keep yous wahm inside and build up yer courage sorta speak. Now, that’s when the ol’ Roopah’s store comes inta play. You’s gots to stack up on the beverage necessities before you get ta Jim’s so make sure ya stop and gets you some fine drinks or that head bitin’ won’t be so easy, ayuh?

Now, you may think that we Mainahs are just up here all wintah long, freezin’ and a chatterin’ away, but let me tell you, we are just fine bitin’ heads off smelt, thank ya very much. Hope ta see you there this Friday or Satraday; I heard she’s gonna be a cold one, yesiree.

Dancing in the Dark with Björk

2010-01-09T21:19:00.001-05:00

Once in a blue moon there’s a film that really grips you. I mean, strangle-hold, pin-you-down-on-the-mat, no-crying-uncle kind of film where at times you struggle to catch your breath, you choke back tears, you wrestle with emotion and are overcome with awe. A connection is formed. And when it’s all over, when the screen goes black and the block letters scroll up from the bottom of your screen, you feel as though a little part of you may have changed slightly. I felt that shift after watching Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark starring Icelandic singer Björk.

You may scoff at first, rolling your eyes at the realization that this is—yes—a musical. You may assume it’ll have a bit of Newsies pluckiness or Grease’s teenage soap opera angst. Perhaps it will have epic political undertones like The Sound of Music or gaudy and outlandish characters like Rocky Horror Picture Show. Instead, you’ll find a tactful film, complete with original story line and a soundtrack you wouldn’t be ashamed to play in your car.

The movie, tailor-made for Björk with the score being composed by her, is a story about a Czech woman who faces imminent medical problems and struggles to make sure that the same doesn’t happen for her son. She escapes life’s woes by daydreaming that her life is a musical because “somebody’s always there to catch you when you fall,” in a musical.

I do have to admit, I’m a Björk fan. Always have been. So to see her, to listen to her amazing voice and be able to connect the emotion with the story behind the lyrics, brings her to a whole new level for me. She committed to her character in a way that was so believable, so utterly moving, that I couldn’t help but share this film with all of you. It’s no wonder she was nominated for a Golden Globe and won best actress when the film debuted at Cannes in 2000.

I never watch movies twice, but I’d watch this a thousand times over.

Can a Soul Reside in a Cookie?

2009-11-24T17:20:00.001-05:00

One holiday my mother forgot to make her famed “whirligig” cookies, and all hell broke loose.

“Where’s the whirligigs?” a cousin asked as they searched the dessert counter for the chocolate swirled cookies.

“They have to be there somewhere! Obviously Kathy brought them,” said my aunt, her back to the others as she washed the never-ending pile of dishes.

“What?! No whirligigs?” another cousin echoed, panic in her eyes as she approached the typical holiday spread of pumpkin and apple pies. She muttered in disapproval as she lifted, poked and prodded for the goods.

The news quickly spread around the kitchen and others joined in, elbowing and searching for the desired treats. Like San Fermin they rushed the orange counter, hunting high and low for the obviously misplaced rubber Tupperware container they had become so familiar with year after year.

Standing between the kitchen and far room, I could see my mother sinking in her chair, pretending to be preoccupied in conversation with a relative who had not yet heard the disastrous news of the missing cookies. I watched her as she took off her glasses, pulled a half-used tissue from the pocket of her leaf-embellished vest and gingerly cleaned the gold-rimmed spectacles as a riot ensued in the kitchen.

Had she not heard? Does she not sense the tension? Peeking back through the saloon-style doors that lead from the living room to the kitchen where the food was laid out, I watched in horror as cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends began to get up in-arms over the absent cookies. Arms gesticulated, the wooden cupboards were opened and slammed shut, people looked atop appliances and in closets, all in a vain attempt to find the missing treats.

“They have to be here somewhere!” said a cousin as she went into the coat room. “Maybe Kathy left them in here.”

“Did you look on top of the fridge?” another snapped.

“Of course I looked on top of the fridge! What do you think I am?”

“Hey, you don’t suppose she didn’t make them, do you?” The room gasped at the idea of my mother, The Whirligig Queen, forgetting or, worse yet, just plain not making the traditional peanut butter and chocolate swirl treasures.

I tugged at my sagging tights and brushed back my hair with small hands. Looking from my mother and back through the cracked wooden doors, I knew confrontation was just a matter of minutes because she hadn’t made them. I knew she hadn’t. She had decided not to bother this year for some adult reason I couldn’t comprehend. And now, well, now, all hell was breaking loose.

Swallowing hard, I looked with wide-eyes back to my mother. She was calm; her brown hair curled and mounded around her head, she sat with one leg curled under her and laughed a hearty, toothy laugh. Her cheeks blushed rose which made me think that yes, of course she can hear them. She knows the mutiny that is brewing in the other room. But what is she going to do?

“Hey, Molly!” called an elder cousin in my direction. I stumbled backward, realizing that the saloon doors in all their swinging coolness had left the entire bottom half of my body exposed and was, perhaps, not an ideal hiding place to stay uninvolved in the whole ordeal. I was called into the kitchen and was soon interrogated as a material witness to either the making, or lack thereof, of the cookies.

“I dunno,” I answered coyly as they asked me where the whirligigs were. I looked from one face to the other as they towered over me in a cookie-induced delirium like addicts needing a fix. I shuffled from one foot to the other, avoiding eye contact.

“Maybe you should ask my mom?” I suggested, sweat pouring under my flannel dress. I searched for my brother in the crowd. Where’s Angus? Angus will help me! I don’t want to be the one to break the news, to oust my mom. But he was nowhere to be found. Apparently he was much smarter than I, and had made himself scarce.

In all the confusion I managed to slink away back through the doors and retreated to my mother who still sat safely in the far room.

“Mom, they want to know where the whirligigs are,” I whined.

“Do they?” she asked half amused. “I didn’t make any whirligigs this year.”

“I know that, but… But…” I tried to find the right words.

“Just tell them that they can wait ‘til Christmas. I didn’t feel like making them,” she said coolly, stroking my hair with her hand as she held a cup of Pepsi in the other.

But it was too late; the forces had spilled into the room in search of answers, demanding reason for this potential ruination of their holiday feast. They surrounded us like accusatory vultures and I buried my head into my mother’s shoulder. She smelt of Anis Anis perfume and fabric sheets.

“Kathy, where’s the whirligigs?” a cousin pleaded.

With one dismissive wave of her hand, my mother frankly explained that she had not made the cookies and that everyone would have to wait for Christmas to have them. A silence fell over the room and the cousins looked at each other in shock, disbelieving.

“But, but, you have to make them,” they begged. “It’s Thanksgiving. They’re tradition.”

“You’ll have them at Christmas. Eat some pie,” my mother said lightheartedly. I took a deep breath and watched as the family, although disappointed, smiled, accepting the grave fact that the cookies were not to be enjoyed this Thanksgiving, and perhaps appeased by the promise of enjoying them in just a few short weeks at Christmas time.

For years to come, relatives would regale at the year my mother failed to make whirligigs and teased that she couldn’t come to holidays without them. Now, that jocular threat has been passed down to me.

Before my mother passed, she taught me how to make whirligigs. Too sick to stand by my side while I made the cookies, she directed me from the couch, calling out ingredients and tricks she had learned by trial and error over the many years of preparing the cookies for the holidays. Amused with herself, she revealed the secret ingredient, something she had not shared with anyone else. And although her appetite was diminishing, she still enjoyed licking a beater with me and even indulged in a slice of the raw dough.

It’s true, I had learned to make them before. Each holiday season I’d help my mother sift the flour and melt the chocolate, but there was something more serious when recently she suggested we make them together. Maybe she felt that this was an important legacy I needed to carry on. Maybe she just didn’t want another mutiny in her memory.

That last cookie-making moment was sacred to me, is sacred to me. And as the holidays approach, my first holidays without my mother here, I find myself hesitant to make them. But I know with each bite, each savory morsel of swirled goodness, she’ll be with us.

I like that.

IMG00113.jpg

2009-11-03T08:46:00.001-05:00

Do you think there will be hesitation for those voters who have to enter schools as the polling place?

I mean, the media has made schools out to be breeding grounds of the swine flu. News flash! Schools are breeding grounds for all sickness- they're kids. Tell me the last time you saw a child sneeze all over themselves. Pick their nose? Cough on a friend? Puke without warning? And all this without washing their hands afterward.

Swine flu or no swine flu, bring hand sanitizer.

In Search of a Green Thumb

2009-10-19T22:23:00.001-04:00

I’ve decided to “go green” for the winter. No, I’m not buying a hybrid car or recycling my grey water. I’m simply bringing as many plants inside as I can. I'm greening up the pad, if you will. The only problem is my track record as an indoor gardener is a bit rough.

It’s a love hate relationship, really: I love the plants, they hate me. A bit of a bummer to someone who enjoys indoor plants a whole lot, but this time I’m going to get it right. I can feel it.

Perhaps it’s the hour-long conversation with the gardening experts at Algren Appliance that boosted my confidence; their no nonsense advice in potting soil and fertilizer feeding really revved me up. But whatever the catalyst, I’m happy to have started this journey into purification of air and just plain lushness to contrast with the barren, disgusting bleakness of winter.

It all started with an inherited spider plant that has been around since I can remember. It sits in the corner of my kitchen, long overgrown tentacles drooping to the floor and mixed in with the growth are little spores just waiting to be plucked and potted. So I did just that and plunking them into pots, I eagerly waited for them to grow.

They died. No matter how much I cooed and coaxed the little buggers to fight, they just kept losing their green and started sagging in the leaf department. It was quite disappointing, really. But I did walk away with a lesson learned: Too much water and not enough sun is a bad combination. Duh.

So when I went to the local farm stand the other day and saw that herbs were 3 for a dollar, I just couldn’t resist. I mean, who can pass up fresh herbs in the kitchen, right? Maybe herbs would be the revival (or creation of) my green thumb!

After potting and planting, fertilizing and watering, transplanting and arranging, I’ve created a little green oasis in my home. I have herbs aplenty, spider plant spores galore, relocated outdoor plants and even some clippings of a Hydrangea tree from my mother-in-law I’m attempting to root and plant as my own. Now I just hope this thumb turns green, otherwise I’ll have quite the mess on my hands.

Sockin’ It To The Dempsey Challenge

2009-10-05T13:43:00.001-04:00

It’s still raw, the fact that I lost my mother. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I think I hear her calling to me, the way she used to when I took care of her. Other times I lay in bed, haunted by things I should have done better, could have done better, and I cry. It’s this overwhelming feeling of guilt, not because I’ve done something wrong, but because there was nothing more I could do.

She passed away. Moved on. Whatever you want to label it, the truth of the matter is that she is, in fact, gone. I can’t touch her. I can’t smell her. I can’t complain to her, laugh with her, cry, cook, clean, dance, bitch, yell or share with her tangibly. All I have is her memory, and I’m scared of it fading.

My heart hurts—literally hurts—with a longing to see her again, to have a spare second, another moment… anything. I wrestle with my emotions, try to put them in check to my current reality, but grief always seems to seep in unannounced and pungent.

When I was living and taking care of Mum this past year, I ran in the mornings. I ran to relieve the pressure; to take a breather from being a caregiver. The mornings I’d slack, not wanting to put on my sneakers and hoof it outside, she’d nudge me out, reminding me to go because she knew I needed it. And truthfully, she probably needed it as well, to know I was doing something for myself and coming back to her refreshed. It was an important part of our new relationship, those morning runs.

This past Sunday I ran. I ran for my mother as part of Team Black Socks, fourteen friends and family members banded together in honor and memory of her, participating in The Dempsey Challenge. A walking, running and bicycling event, it’s in support of those fighting cancer, those who have survived it and the families of those affected by the disease.

The air crisp and the sky overcast with a blanket of grey, it was ideal weather for a 5k run. I started out with the hundreds of other participants, my pace steady and my breathing only slightly labored, and as another hill rose on the horizon, I dug in, determined to finish the entire course. At times tears swelled up and that hurt, that hurt in my heart, made it difficult to go on. Memories flooded back to me, grief bubbled up, but I continued for her: For every smile she gave in the face of grave diagnosis, for every joke she made to deal with her pain, for every bit of fight she tackled the illness with bravely and courageously and for everything she was and always will be.

The quiet rhythm of feet on pavement was broken by a woman behind me as she shouted encouragement to herself: "You can do this! Only one more mile to go! My father went through three years of pain, I can go through 3 miles. Dig! Dig in!” It struck deep inside me and through her words, we came together as mourning daughters, fighting the road under our feet just as our parent had their battle with cancer.

Crossing the finish line, tears streamed my face. I was both relieved and saddened that the race was over. I had been dedicated to this event for the past five months, a way for me to keep my mother alive in my everyday thoughts, to keep her memory from fading. No what?

As I found a spot near the finish line, I watched as my brother and his girlfriend, my friends, mother-in-law, my mother’s college friends, my husband and father-in-law crossed the finish line, each proud to have completed the course, each touched by the reason we were united today.

Our team raised over 5,900 dollars for the Dempsey Center, a lifeline for me during my mum’s illness, and in total the event raised more than 1 million. Generous donations from friends and family to our team over the past five months inspired us on a daily basis. But more than money, the donations remind us of how loved our mother was, how she touched peoples’ lives. We will never forget that. We will never forget her. Ever.

I’ll keep running.

Art in the Afternoon

2009-07-21T16:38:00.010-04:00

Andrew Mc kenzie and Jason Squamata. Rad new art conglomerate.

As I wandered the streets of Rockland, Maine, my mind yawned at all the moose-themed pajamas in storefront windows and redundant coffee spots. Perhaps it was the rain, the dulling grey sky, but killing time really felt exactly like that: killing time, only I was murdering it with coastal Maine monotony.

That was, until I found myself wedged in a precarious hallway called the "in between gallery" with some of the coolest art/narrative collaboration from Maine boy Andrew Mc Kenzie and Oregonian Jason Squamata(whose name, by the way, was incredibly hard to spell on a Blackberry with auto-text).

Just wanting to find an alternative exit to the jammed front door of Rock City Coffee Roasters where I got myself a pick-me-up coffee, I stumbled into said hallway and was blown away. The art movement is called HYPNO. What exactly it is, I'm not sure, but I like it.

Here's an explanation you can have a stab at from HYPNO artist Sir Richard Wentworth's blog and HYPNO-Wiki(http://rwentworth.blogspot.com/):

HYPNO is the current default designation for a style, aesthetic and worldview that has its roots in Entropian and Hypgnostic salons, hatched in front rooms, secret gardens and humid discotheques across Boston, Brighton, Allston and Everett Massachusetts in the late 90s. The vision of the original movement informed the group's musical, artistic and narrative output, and generated recording projects, comic books, graphic design, short stories and even dance nights.

The original group's activities culminated in the summer of 2002 with a live presentation of Orji Walflauer's radical response to H.P. Lovecraft's From Beyond. This mass hyposis "happening" was staged and performed by members of the World Hypgnostik Order and featured spontaneous sound design by the ritual improvisation group Clue Display. The intensity of the evening's entertainment splintered the movement and placed an emphatic ellipsis on the future of HYPNO.

Lined with poster-sized artwork the "in between" hallway was a confusion of black and white swirls, dizzying and captivating. Each image seemed to tell a story.

Andrew's Art is like a myriad of smashed spider-veined windows and rippling water obscuring the succession of layered pictures overlapping in one's inner mind. It's rapid-fire thoughts interrupted with paused questions and an over-stimulated 1990's era MTV-head, of Pop Culture imagery and contorted everyday subjects.

Jason Squamata is Head Writer and Creative Director of HYNOKOMIX, the art movement these works belong to, and the author of the narratives that accompanied each artwork. Dark and sinister, like a good Chuck Palahniuk novel, it pulls you in with its tense and intelligent writing, its interesting story line and character traits that are a reflection of everything about oneself you don't want anyone to know.

Standing in that pale yellow hallway, totally immersed in the story and artwork of these two was the best hour of my day. For a little while, on a drizzly afternoon, I went somewhere else -- and that's exactly what art is supposed to do.

To find out more check out the artist's webpage:
http://web.me.com/squamata/HYPNOCRACY/HYPNO_is....html
http://web.me.com/squamata/HYPNOCRACY/HYPNOZINE.html

“We’ve Got the Biggest, Balls of Them All” – AC/DC

2009-05-01T21:03:00.001-04:00

Whoa, whoa. whoa… Wait just one darn minute as I wretch in disgust —is that a scrotum hanging from the rear of your rusted out, 1995 Chevy truck?

(Image from Your-Nuts.com)

I try to follow behind in my car at a safe distance, but the mesmerizing rocking to-and-fro as the Chevy accelerates and decelerates with the pace of traffic has the oddity swaying, hypnotizing me into a trance and I find myself drawn to it, unable to look away.

I get it, alright. You’re tough. You’re rugged. Your vehicle “has balls”. But to actually go all the way and adhere faux testes to the trailer hitch or undercarriage of your vehicle in an effort to communicate that with the public? That takes, well, balls.

I’m both disgusted and intrigued by the person who would commit such an ocular crime.

Where does one even go to purchase truck/car testicles? Can I just waltz into the local V.I.P. or Pep Boys and pick up a pair? Does one saunter down the accessory aisle, scanning the shelves in hopes of locating the gem? “Let’s see there’s coconut-scented air fresheners shaped like sandals, metallic dolphin appliqués, your choice of Taz or Tweety car mats and, oh, here we are, plastic testicles. Look honey, they have them in blue as well.”

Or even better, were they given as a gift? Perhaps at a casual birthday party at the double-wide? “Hey Tom. I know you’ve been working real hard on that there Chevy truck o’ yours and, woo-wee, does she go like hell! Thought of you when I saw these.” I can only imagine Grandma’s delight as the unwrapped box makes its way over to her for viewing.

Aghast from my near-scrotum experience, I found myself slyly eye-balling rear-ends of trucks recently. Was it in hopes of seeing another? Was I just so hypnotized by the bobbing pair I followed that I had become one of the scrotum minions, forever doomed to notice “trucks with balls”?

It’s amazing once you realize how many of these anatomically correct genitalia grace the backside of vehicles, the actual societal breadth that has been touched. I saw an especially impressive stringy-haired, Pall Mall smoking, sloppy T-shirt wearing class-act of a female driving a Jeep Cherokee with plastic enhanced hairy white nuts bobbing behind her vehicle. I also noticed a Toyota with a plank board bed sporting a pair of chrome ones, a station wagon complete with children in the backseat with a not-so-discreet pair of hot pink danglers, and a teal blue colored Cavalier proudly oozing the testosterone that comes with owning a pair of vehicle testes.

Out of utter curiosity, a quick internet search lead me to find that there was several types of balls to be had: “Bull’s Balls Style” “Big Boy Style”, chrome balls in 1st AND 2nd generation, solid colors, metallic colors, balls for a keychain, balls for a motorcycle – Oh, the balls!

At one particular site, http://www.truck-nuts.com/balls.html, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the semantic tango attributed to each particular design. Here’s a sampling from the website:

“Black Tuxedo Nuts

SHOW UP TO THAT BLACK TIE AFFAIR IN STYLE. A SHARP DRESSED TUXEDO NUT. THESE ARE POWDER COATED IN A GLOSSY FINISH. PERFECT FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.”

…Yes, perfect.

It appears that a strong following has developed for the visual flexing of machismo. But not everyone is a fan. In Maryland and Virginia bills were passed to the senate to make the dangling duo illegal. They were also given the shaft in Florida where a small fine was notched on for anyone seen flashing a pair. But apparently, not where I am.

We’ve obviously got big balls. Do you?

Rallying Support for Maine's Same-Sex Marriage Bill

2009-04-23T17:33:00.001-04:00

Same-sex marriage rights have been a hot-button topic of late with California passing Proposition 8 and nullifying the 2005 same-sex marriage bill, Iowa and Vermont legalizing gay marriage this past month and now New York and New Hampshire considering their own state laws in support of gay marriage.

The call for action has not gone unheard in Maine. Equality Maine, based out of Portland, is the state's oldest and largest lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) advocacy organization and the only political advocacy program in the state. The group rallied statewide, calling on supporters to attend the April 22 hearing that took place at the Augusta Civic Center for Democratic Senator Dennis Damon's bill (LD 1020), which if passed, would provide legal protections for same-sex couples in Maine.

"It has been our mission for 25 years to affect public policy in Maine," said Betsy Smith, Executive Director at Equality Maine. They are working closely with the Maine Freedom to Marriage Coalition, a group of 34 Maine based organizations in helping to make this bill a reality, and to offer protection to same-sex couples.

Two groups of participants were organized in support: those who testified in front of the Judicial Committee, and the much larger group of people who came —dressed in various shades of red clothing — to show their support. "We've asked couples who will be effected by this law, who currently don't have protection to raise their families in a healthy and secure way, to testify. We also have what we call content experts," she continues, "including child welfare advocates and the AACP." The content experts stressed the benefit marriage has on children, regardless of the parents' sexual preference, while other testimonies were based on personal experience.

Opposition was also on hand to voice their disagreement to the proposed bill. Many from religious backgrounds quoted The Bible as deeming homosexuality as a sin and same-sex marriage as unholy as their main arguments.

Other religious leaders noted the danger in quoted The Bible too closely. Casey Collins of the Lewiston Methodist Church was quoted in the Lewiston Sun Journal as saying, "If the Bible is taken word for word as it is written, adultery would be punished by death by stoning as would a woman getting married who is not a virgin. No one to my knowledge has recently been stoned to death for adulterous acts."

In a country whose Forefather’s wrote:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

It seems that the answer to whether this bill should or should not be passed was already answered on July 4, 1776.

The Declaration of Independence states that “…all men (and women) are created equal…” Then why should a minority lack the same protections and rights from their government than the majority? That is not equality, that is discrimination.

The argument that The Bible states that homosexuality is a sin and is therefore wrong should be completely disregarded in a political arena based on the saying attributed to Thomas Jefferson in regards to the First Amendment of The United States Constitution: Separation of church and state. If church and state are to be separate, then why bring religion into the argument at all?

April 28 is the earliest the Judiciary Committee is expected to vote. If approved, it still needs to go to the Senate, the House and then to Governor Baldacci.

Here’s to a tolerant America.

Burger Time

2009-04-01T18:08:00.001-04:00

Hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry. But is anyone really hungry enough to eat a 4lb burger?

The Fifth Third Ballpark in Grand Rapids, Michigan has decided to offer up this heinous meal-time choice. Maxing out at a whooping 4,800 calories (that’s more than double the FDA’s daily caloric recommendation), this gargantuan burger defies a one-person consumption. Or does it?

We’ve all heard our mothers and our mother’s mothers groan on about the hungry children in Ethiopia when we’ve been forced to sit at the kitchen table for not finishing our peas, but those are a few measly peas. Think if we could pass this on to them! The joy! The celebrations that would ensue. I mean, this has the potential to feed a family of five— easily. Maybe even an army! A village!

Unfortunately, I think that if any of those poor starving children even attempted to eat this monstrosity, he or she would surely drop from the shock to the system that the reported 300 grams of fat, 10,000 mg sodium, and 744 milligrams of cholesterol would dole out. Obviously this age-old adage doesn’t work with this monstrosity. Sorry starving kids, I fear that this’ll freaking kill you.

Now keep in mind that this isn’t your normal burger. This puppy is loaded with oddities like corn chips, salsa and a cup of chili. Part of me wants to plead with them to stop the insanity. For crying out loud, corn chips? Frigging corn chips? Come on, that’s obviously just to up the ante on it’s disgusting unhealthiness, isn’t it?

I can see the cooks standing around the kitchen, each in stained aprons, hands wet from spreading chili over the five patties, hemming and hawing over the magnificent creation they just assembled.

“It just doesn’t look finished,” one cook says to another as he scans the shelves of food in front of him.

“Well, what else would you put on it, Jim*?”

“Screw it,” says the first, “let’s just throw whatever the heck’ll make this baby the most ridiculous thing people have seen in a while, and watch them flock!” Enter the corn chips to the equation.

And the funny thing? The funny thing is that people will flock to Fifth Third, just to try to the damn thing. Just as they did in Clearfield, PA to try the "Beer Barrel Belly Buster" or "The Big One" at Mama Lena's Pizza House in McKees Rock, PA (what’s up with your over-sized foods PA?). People big, bigger and relatively small will walk into the stadium with high hopes of ingesting the atrocity and waddle away bloated and full, perhaps even with the misguided idea of topping the whole thing off with the signature deep-fried Twinkie. (oh, yeah. They have those there too.)

This is one giant leap for obesity, and one small step for the evolution of the burger. I’m full just thinking about it.

Hypocrite This

2009-03-27T16:27:00.001-04:00

So what? I got a phone. A freakin’ Blackberry Pearl. Am I a hypocrite? Yes, yes I am. But the good thing is that, unlike others, I can admit it. I can swallow it. And I can look at myself in the mirror.

I’m not going to bore you with a bunch of “I needed its” or “work required its” or other explanations or excuses. I got it, that’s that.

Call me.

Death of a Bagger

2009-03-06T18:32:00.001-05:00

Dear Hannaford Bag Boy,

Why are you single-handedly trying to smother the Earth in plastic bags? Do you have something against soil? Grass? Pebbles? Stoneconcretesandflowerbedsgravelmulchflowingfieldsofwheat?

Was there some sort of traumatic experience you had as a kid that left you feeling less than snuggly toward our planet?

If so, digress. Please. Because as I see it, you’re on a mission to pollute. I mean, here I am, the lowly purchaser of grocer goods, trying to make my little dent in trying to save the world and all you do is nullify my every attempt.

Things you do that piss me off:

When I come to shop and try to check out with an annoying bulge of recycled Hannaford plastic bags from my house you ignore their very presence until I notice too late and have to accept that I have all new plastic packed purchases and my old bags.

When I request paper, you pack the paper bags in plastic bags? I mean, that defeats the whole purpose for me. Now I’m creating extra waste for crying out loud!

You insist on putting only a very few items into each bag. I’m not 80! Load that shit up!

One time you put the meat with the fruit and I almost barfed – not separated by the special plastic bag for meat. that, I understand. use that.

Why do I have to put all my produce in a separate bag, only to have you bag all the bags? Come on!

I have also noticed that Hannaford has stopped offering $.05 for every plastic bag customers bring in. I see your alliance. You are the Panthor to their Skeletor.

I really hope we can resolve this problem without me having to go out and buy those stupid little canvas bags with butterflies and catchy Earth Day sayings on them.

Until we meet again.

Suspiciously,

Molly

I Was Born For This.

2009-02-23T13:30:00.001-05:00

So there I was, minding my own business on Facebook when all of a sudden a friend posted a link to The Best Job in The World.

Best job, huh? fine, I’ll bite.

After clicking on the aforementioned link and watching the spiel, I was hooked. Holy schnikes, I thought. I was born for this job! There was only one problem. How do I communicate all I need to say in the allotted 1 minute video… and where do I find a video camera?!

After much searching and procrastination, I finally shot, edited and uploaded my application video for The Best Job in the World. Take a look and please vote for me! (Click “rate this video”).

http://www.islandreefjob.com/#/applicants/watch/13Rx_PujIAo

I’m already packing.

For the Love of Valentine’s Day

2009-02-18T13:29:00.001-05:00

When I think of Valentine’s Day, I think of little red, pink and purple construction paper hearts, white doilies and brown paper bag pseudo mailboxes. The Outcast song “Happy Valentine’s Day” plays repetitively in my head like some sort of day-long anthem: “Happy Valentine’s Day/ Every day the 14th/ I don’t think ya’ll heard me/ I just wanna say Happy Valentine’s Day…” It’s a day where everyone indulges in binge chocolate eating, and consciously or not, many people wear a variant of the color red. That’s a damn good holiday if you ask me.

What’s everyone’s problem with the day dedicated to love? The constant whinging on about how it is just a Hallmark holiday is nauseating. Everyone seems to be on a crusade to take down Valentine’s Day. Gangs of disgruntled lovers and those locked into singledom rue the day. They lurk around corners, stomp on roses and spit into cookie batter. They tear off the heads of teddy bears holding faux boxes of chocolate and request tortured songs of love on the radio like J. Geils band’s “Love Stinks”.

Anyone rhyming anything remotely romantic are ostracized, and those staring longingly and doe-eyed at their lover will be taken ‘round back and forced to wear sunglasses. What gives?

Now, don’t think I’m on the side of Valentine’s Day just because I’m happily married – although I’m sure it helps – but I honestly like the holiday. It conjures warm memories of childhood, like wishing Steve Lessard would drop the oh-so-wished-for note declaring his 6th grade crush on me, or filling out specially selected valentines at my kitchen table for friends while my Mother looked on and helped spell things such as, “I like you a wicked lot”.

I mean, what a time! The school day was basically a wash with kids all jacked up on Red Hots® and NECCO’s Conversation Hearts®. Little girls squealed as they read waaaaay to in to what each heart said as if they were some sort of secret message from a crush, and boys tried to act nonchalant about the whole thing, when in all actuality, they probably hand picked each heart. There were parties, activities, hours of scissor use cutting out hearts, and yes, Hallmark cards up the wazoo.

So what’s the big deal? Why hate on one day trying to bring a warm fuzzy feeling to people struggling in a world so afflicted with hurt and hate, crime and war?

It’s that age-old belief that being indifferent and revolting against traditional values is cool. These people who look down their noses at Valentine’s Day see it as a commercial holiday created by capitalistic America, and well, maybe it is, but look at the potential bigger picture. It gives this dirty and dysfunctional world we live in a glow, even if just for one day.

Maybe it shouldn’t be looked at as what you don’t have – but I don’t have a boyfriend/girlfriend, no one took me out to eat at a fancy restaurant, I didn’t get any notes from a secret admirer, there wasn’t a song dedicated to me on the radio this morning – and use the day as a tool in reminding you to be more polite to the toll booth operator, say thank you to a harried waitress, smile at a complete stranger. Instead of expecting, do the unexpected. Imagine if everyone used the day to be reminded of their manners, the heavy burdens of others and became easy going and forgiving – what a day that would be, eh? Oh, that’s Valentine’s Day.

The origination of Valentine’s Day is shrouded in speculation, but reoccurring themes of heroism, sympathy, fertility and romance appear in all, whether you believe that the holiday was formed to celebrate one of the Christian martyrs named Valentine (or Valentinus), or that that it was a conspiracy to absolve the Roman Lupercalia festival. Each legend holds the silver lining of humanity. It was only in 498 A.D. that Valentine’s Day was declared an actual holiday and romance entered the picture when in the Middle Ages, people associated the day with the mating season of birds. Soon after, the first known valentines were sent professing love on the 14th of February.

Sure the commercial obsession with the holiday has muddled the true meaning of Valentine’s Day, but that’s the same for St. Patrick’s Day (beer anyone?), Christmas (presents, presents, presents!!!!), Easter (more candy?), etc. It’s our job as responsible consumers and self-thinking human beings of the 21st Century not to be too easily distracted and swayed by all the glitter and gold of the market. So if you’re one of the people out there cursing the holiday for it’s superficial and obvious failings, I suggest being an individual and looking a little deeper to see it for what it could be, not what it is to the masses.

I'm Going to Beat Up the Economy

2009-02-05T17:00:00.001-05:00

Just so you know, I've been lifting weights. Yeah, that's right. I've started going to the gym again and when I get all buff and tough, I'm totally going to kick the economy's ass on the playground.

What has the economy done to me you ask? Pssht, what hasn't it done to me lately. I feel like I'm in some sort of abusive relationship with it like I'm dating one of the girls from School of Rock. It's all hair pulling and naughty words and frankly, I've had enough.

Some may say that I'm resorting to childish means. I say screw 'em, I'm fed up. I'm desperate. I'm going to show that bully who's boss - fourth grade style. I mean, what am I suppose to do when I get handed a note from the Bush Administration that's all: "Jobs, sure we have jobs." Then later that same day CNN passes me a note saying: “Unemployment rate is the highest it's been in years." Well make up your mind, Economy, which is it? Am I to be employed or not? I'm not talking a rinky-dink Burger King gig, I'm talking putting-my-two-degrees-to-use-and-earning-a-hefty-salary job. Whatever, I circle "no". As in "Oh, no you didn't!"

Enough already with all the false promises in The Land of (No) Opportunity and the constant picking-on-the-new-kid crap from tangled immigration laws. Not to mention the bailout of the popular "Big Three" car clique. Just because they have fancy designer suits and fly in private jets doesn't make it okay. Especially when we're being evicted from home room and could use a little support.

So I'm jabbing, punching, twisting, pushing, jumping, hooking, pressing, running, sweating and lifting my way toward total body workout all in the name of kicking the economy's derrière. Who's coming to the gym?

Oh, Mr. Postman. Bring Me a...

2009-01-28T15:15:00.001-05:00

Maybe I'm alone here, but I enjoy the act of sending and receiving mail. Don't get me wrong, I have no issues with email and in fact, I use it all the time. But there's something nostalgic about gathering letters from a mailbox, off the floor after sliding through a slot in the door or from a lock-and-key box from the post office, that isn't comparable to the electronic version.

Perhaps it's a direct result of Americans using email so frequently that this nostalgia has even developed. We've started to look into our cyber-mailboxes multiple times a day instead of savoring the anticipation and enjoyment of collecting scattered envelopes after work. We've become mail-spoiled. Shame on us.

I'm not going to lie, I like getting Publisher's Clearing House prize patrol warnings — it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like seeing that pale yellow envelope to know you arrived. It's so grown up, so here and now, so trash chic. I feel validated as a human being. Yes, I'm here! Heck, they even know where here is, they know where I live! Send me the latest newsletter from some obscure organization I signed up for during my empowered college years, I still may want to save a starving child in Uganda and I love getting those little return address stick-'ems and matching stickers — keep them coming I say!

Sure, "going paperless" may be the hip save-the-environment way to go, but what's the fun in that? Instead of the satisfaction of ripping useless reminders to renew your magazine subscription, you have a full inbox. Hitting delete just doesn't do it. I actually like to stand with the trash can nearby, tearing apart useless information and chucking it into the bin until I'm left with a slim pile of credible mail. That way I know I've accomplished something. And it feels good.

And if not for the sense of accomplishment it gives you, then at least for the mail men and women. I like to think of them as a Norman Rockwell character from his paintings, trudging through knee-high snow in frigid temps just to bring you the daily telegraph. That's dedication. Come rain, come snow, come hail and sweltering heat they suffer so that you can stay communicated to your love ones... or prize patrols. Are we just going to ignore their century-long sacrifice?

Sometimes I even romanticize about the days of the Pony Express and how exciting mail used to be. (*Sigh*) If only we still had that allure: Racing through the mountains atop heated steeds, saddle bags bulging with love letters and prize announcements from Ed McMahon, constantly racing against the clock and the elements to make sure the mail arrived on time. Classy. That's what that is. It's classy. Where's the class in the electronic chiming of "You've got mail"?

The other day I was surprised to see that a job I was applying for requested I send my resume by post. Was it a fluke? I thought it strange at first and was even tempted to ignore the request and shoot my info off lightning-quick via email, but realized that this was a perfect opportunity to do my part in keeping the mail system alive.

I went to my friendly neighborhood post office to purchase a manila envelope for my mailings (you know the ones, they are brownish-yellow 9 x 12 folders with a flap and small clasp.), but I was surprised to find that there were none for purchase. They've all been replaced by flashy white cardboard sleeves, puffed bubble-wrap filled envelopes and origami-inspired boxes. Whatever happened to the discreet manila envelope?

"You can use one of those white jobbies there," said the woman behind the counter, "or you can jazz it up with that there Mickey Mouse or confetti colored one."

Uh, what? Seriously? Mickey Mouse? Yeah lady, that's right. I'm going to send my resume via Mickey Mouse envelope. That should really give me a leg up on the competition.

After much searching and some swearing under my breath I found the damned folders for $4.49 at Office Depot. I then returned to the post office to mail my documents. God forbid the post offices have ordinary envelopes in stock.

Why am I telling you this? Because it made me realize how the mail system is going downhill. Not only is it becoming obsolete, but Disney has taken it over as well and turned it into some sort of circus. I began thinking about paperless alternatives, postmen and women losing their jobs and the utter delight I get in receiving mail, no matter what it is.

Here's to mail!

A Pregnant Pause

2009-01-21T12:26:00.001-05:00

Is it just me, or did you hear it too? The silence. The awe of billions as they watched America's newest president take his oath at the Capital Building.

Everywhere people fell silent, hunching forward in anticipation of The Change promised to come with Barack Obama's inauguration. Restaurants brimming with lunchtime patrons went quiet. Phones sat unanswered as office workers crowded around televisions or computers transmitting the historic event. Deserted four-square balls rolled through abandoned playgrounds as students huddled together in auditoriums to watch the momentous happening. The knitting needles of the elderly stopped clacking and chainsaws of lumber workers seized to growl as all ears were pricked to listen. Cash registers took a break from transactions as attention was drawn elsewhere. Gas pumps sat idle as people leaned through open doors of their cars to hear each word over NPR. College campuses held no lectures, as one of the biggest lessons of our lives was being broadcast.

Americans with tears in our eyes and hope swelling within our hearts, we watched in united silence. Smiles broke across chapped lips and pride surged through our crippled egos as his hand graced the velvet top of the Lincoln bible. We held our breath, all of us, the entire world, during those 35 words.

Holding Out... Just... a Little... Longer...

2009-01-16T11:35:00.008-05:00

So what? I DON'T have a cell phone. Call me prehistoric. Call me technologically deficient. Call me lame and give me a funny sideward glance. But what you can't do is call me when I'm away from home.

It's one part defiance, two parts financial. It's become more of a snub to society and its need to be constantly contactable then me really giving a damn. Sure, I'd like to whip out my slim Motorola RAZR from the back pocket of my skinny jeans as much as the next girl, but why weigh myself down with the burden? Other people have phones; they can call. Is it for social status? To show how hip and techno savvy we are? Does owning a Blackberry put you into a higher social rung?

If so, damn.

Okay. So maybe it isn't as noble as I would have one think. Do I feel a little left out? Fine, yes. I'll admit it. I'm one of the few who still looks out the window at the passing buildings on the subway, rather than watching the latest episode of Heroes or texting my friend Tamika about the great chili recipe I just found. I'm forced to wait until my friends have finished texting to continue our conversation. I listen intently to others' cell conversations and ask "What'd they say?" annoyingly until I get the scoop. It's a little bit like being left out of a conversation, standing gawkily behind the inner circle of a great convo.

I will admit that getting stuck on the side of the road in a snow storm - sans celly - would blow a big one. And you got me at the cool factor and the ability to fill awkward voids. Another point gained for falsified excuses from lame dates and proving yourself immediately on bets. Admittedly it is pretty cool how you can find out what song is playing just by holding up your iPhone to the speaker, and I wish I could text someone with a one-word answer instead of wasting all that time in making a phone call.

On the other hand, I have my own (little as it may be) posse of non-cell phone users as well. We be crazy sons-a-bitches! We do wild things like use PAY PHONES! Oh, snap! That's right we use PAY PHONES. Unfortunately they aren't always easy to find because apparently they aren't being used anymore, but when we find them we USE THEM. Even though they cost us almost a dollar to place a local call, we look super retro standing in a booth. Beat that Samsung Propel user with your crazy text fingers.

I also have gained back incredible abilities – yes, that is right, incredible — one being the knack of numeric memorization, the other being the art of small talk. Oh, don’t doubt yourself. You once had these abilities as well. Remember when you were young and you picked up the receiver and dialed your best friend’s number from memory? Can't do that anymore can you? Lose the phone, you lose all the numbers. What about the crazy cycle of self-absorption this era of technology has got you in? Human connection is diminishing, but not for me, boy! I smile at the person sitting across from me. Perhaps we speak about the weather, bond over how grotesque the fat man in the back picking his nose is, share a chuckle over foreign policy — the norm.

See, we're playing hard to get, us non-cell phone users. You can't just call us up any time of the day and have us answer. There's no GPS navigation here. No widgets or simulated click of a computer mouse. We can't blog while on the pooper and we're sure as heck are not going to know what time The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is playing at the local cinema while driving home from work. Inconvenience? Perhaps slightly. But not to someone that is used to having to check the paper, use the phone book and wait a little while instead of getting instant feedback. It could be said that I am practicing the art of patience; becoming Zen-like in this era of go, go, go.

But In all my martyring, have I missed the cultural bus? According to a Gartner report from Cnet News’s website, "Sales of cell phones are on pace to reach a billion annually by the end of the decade, when nearly 40 percent of the world's population will own a mobile handset.” Forty percent? That’s it? I am NOT in the slow lane! Asia may be the biggest buyers of these handheld devices, but until all of China is chirping on their cellies, I’ll still remain one of the masses. Take that social pressure!

And what’s the deal with Bluetooth? Have we boarded the Starship? Talk about cancer in the brain caused by radio waves, that’s going right in the ol’ canal — direct route! How do you expect to be taken seriously? I understand the need for “hands free” as a non cell phone use, I use both hands regularly. Frankly I couldn’t imagine not. But really? Alien growth headset? I will give it points for being the perfect illusion of having an actually conversation. Sometimes I even think Bluetooth wearers are talking to me; I light up, I shoot back a witty answer, only to be met with rolling eyes and embarrassment. If every Schizophrenic in America was given a Bluetooth headset, we’d never know who the crazies were. And I’d stop being let down by fake conversations.

Bring back the Bat signal. Bring back smoke signals, but don’t force me to get a cell phone. Don’t make me feel inadequate for my lack of ownership just because I’m not getting free incoming calls and Verizon’s free nights and weekends. I get nights and weekends too, and guess what? They’re free anyway. Saturday always comes and Wednesday night is a regular occurrence. Even if I’m not making phone calls from the sidewalk.

Next Step: Sandwich Boards

2009-01-13T15:22:00.005-05:00

I saw a news story about a man who had resorted to 1920's-style self advertising trying to find a job: sandwich boards. Now, this may not be the most original idea, but it shows just how desperate people are becoming in this era of unemployment.

Not that negative news is uncommon by any means, but every news story is about companies laying off employees or cutting back. The paper bombards me with stories of unemployment rates skyrocketing and food stamp applications increasing. Everywhere I look I'm confronted by the bleak and dreary outlook of this recession.

What a wonderful time to move back to America. eh?

So here I am, looking for employment in one of the driest employment pools in recent history. Nice one. I thought that going door to door searching for jobs was something I would only need to do once in life. Slinging my portfolio and asking to see the hiring director in Thailand was a humiliating - although normal and expected - experience. But to do it on American soil and as a writer? Ugh!

So here's to the good ol' America, land of opportunity.

Ring it In!

2009-01-08T00:05:00.001-05:00

Subway, 9pm, New York City. The air is ripe with high expectations for the night and the promise of a clean slate for all come midnight. The end of 2008 is here.

It was a year that had taken me from one side of the world to the other, from the tropical home I knew and loved in Thailand back to my childhood home in Maine. A year where I made an incredible pack of friends, all dynamic and unique in their own way and forced me to separate from them. It was a year in which I became a married woman, a dedicated daughter and a new family member. It was a time where I found out what the word "stressed" really meant, what an importance positive thinking is and that crying is sometimes necessary and unplanned.

I'm looking ahead towards 2009 with an open mind and a foggy future plan. But foggy is good, it leaves way for the ebb and flow of life to lead me wherever it is I am supposed to go. Sometimes it all feels too overwhelming like I need a plan, a list, a goal. Sometimes I feel my direction is lost, but have my family and friends to reassure that I am right on target. I see travel cropping up again because honestly, how can I not travel? It's in my blood and drives me. I look forward to cultivating a loving and deep relationship with my husband and facing any challenges we may face as a united front.

5am, subway grate, NYC. Eating pizza with a group of friends, I realize what this year will hold. Pure Joy.

What Good is a Snowblower That Doesn't Blow?

2008-12-18T09:57:00.002-05:00

We've all been there, looking out from the warmth of inside, our eyes large like dessert plates, watching the falling snow. The burble of excitement for accumulating fluff. We think snow angels. snowmen, snow balls, rollicking through the drifts and white washing our unsuspecting friend. What we don't think about seriously, until we're adults at least, is the duty of clearing walkways, driveways and porches. When we're young it's just a chore added on to the endless list of to-do's forced upon us from our parents. A seasonal addition.

Sure, a shovel does the trick. The repetitive scoop, toss, scoop makes for good exercise but it also exhausts the aching bodies of post-adolescents. And that, my friends, is why we all invest in snow blowers.

The relative ease of turning the ignition (or pulling the lawnmower-esque cord for the older models) is mere child's play compared to the hunched back and strained arms of shovelling. The light forward pressure applied to the handles to start the machine in its slow march through the heaps of snow, whether it be hard and iced or light and airy, is almost too easy. The slow crank of the lever to re-direct the shoot of snow, is almost meditative. And when you're done you simply park the beast and admire the ruffled edges of the snow banks, tapering off where the farthest snow landed.

What really blows, is when you wait all morning for the snow to stop without any mid-way shovel or dent in the accumulation. I'll just blow it all away, you think to yourself. Sure in your plan. Just like I've done a million times before. You recall the envied look of your neighbours, blushed with strain and huffing small clouds of hoarfrost as they struggle to finish the job.

The snow stops falling and you strut outside, sure footed as you make your way to the garage. Smirking as you wade through the knee-high powder, you think what a blast this will be -- literally. The giant, rotating teeth of the snow blower will chew through this dump fast enough to get you inside for the second half -- no problem. You tweak the ignition, push her to the top where the rabbit signifies speed, prime the gas and turn the key --nothing. Must be cold, you think to yourself and yank the cord. Nothing. Ah, the good old electric start, that always works. You plug it into the outlet and saunter back to the machine, push the automatic start button and... nothing.

For-crying-out-loud, the damn thing won't work. Now what? Do you admit defeat and grab shovel? Risk being seen by those same struggling neighbours, deflated from your regularly gloating self? Are you less than a man? Less than a woman? Has your rough-and-tough snow blowing extension of yourself failed you? Hindsight comes slapping back and you peer out from the clouded garage window at the 3 feet of heavy snow wishing you had picked up shovel mid-storm. You consider hiding in the garage until the neighbours have returned inside for dinner, then swiftly and without sound shovelling at the speed of light to avoid being seen. But it's all just pride and you realize that pride won't clear the walkways or allow for a car to get out. So you rummage through the depth of the garage until you find the old steel shovel, rusted on the corners and curved with years of use.

Ah, It's just like being a kid again.

Profanity's Connection with the Downward Spiral of the American Economy

2008-12-15T19:24:00.005-05:00

"Well, Fuck."

That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.

Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.

It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?

The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.

Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.

With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."

Oh, The Spirit Has Arrived (in the form of a tree)

2008-12-09T15:51:00.013-05:00

It's the sort of excitement that bubbles up with anticipation, every step a pure delight. Like unwrapping a piece of milk chocolate from shiny tin foil paper, you know what awaits you with every peel and tug of the covering, but just the act is rewarding in itself, the exposed chocolate the definitive and satisfying conclusion. We were going to get a tree today, a Christmas tree.

Faux-Christmas -- as I called it -- had occurred the day before with my father's side of the family. Not obscenely early, but still early enough to make the act feel a bit forced and un-Christmas like. Perhaps it was the lack of my own decorations around the house, I thought. Maybe I needed to get more into the good old Christmas spirit? And what better than the symbol of Christmas -- no, not Santa -- the tree! That classic balsam fir, "Oh, Christmas tree" carol-inspiring, bulb-wielding, light-twinkling holiday icon.

The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!

A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.

We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.

"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.

The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.

Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.

The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.

"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.

A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.

We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.

We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.

Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.

Keep... going...

2008-12-01T20:35:00.004-05:00

I'm running. I'm running. I'm running. It's a burst of energy to keep going. Going. Going. Going. I pile on the duties and keep shuffling through the paperwork or everything else I have to do. Procrastination clouds over, a clogged flue to the chimney of productivity.

Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.

Nipping

2008-11-23T13:36:00.002-05:00

The cold has come despite all my prayers and muttered expletives. Damn. I thought I'd have it this time. Perhaps global warming would mean something other than the eventual demise of the human race and our beloved planet. Oh, if only it meant sunshine and T-shirts in December, Popsicles being ingested rather than forming on our awnings.

In lew of all my bitching, I've decided to embrace this winter season. I only need a few things for this embrace to come full circle: skis and a ski pass. I'm hoping that I can take full advantage of this snow season and hit the slopes again; me on my skis, carving down the mountain, Erik on his board whipping behind, the sun on our faces, the hot chocolate piping hot in the lounge. Oh glorious ski days!

I'm also looking forward to snow angels, snow ball fights, sledding, snuggling fireside and ice skating. I just hope my blood thickens a bit so I'm not miserable why trying to attempt each. What can I say? I've always had a sensitivity to cold, no matter how many woolen sweaters and long john undershirts I layer on.

Plus, the American holiday season is something I hadn't experienced in two years, so I'm excited to get into the throngs of that! Mistletoe and elves, reindeer and Christmas specials -- the excitement!

So take that , Jack Frost! I'm ready, damn it. With chattering teeth or not, I'm ready.

Special today: manicurist woes

2008-11-12T16:36:00.004-05:00

It was a spontaneous thought, provoked by days of agonizing pain. There's been this unwelcome twinge in my upper back and neck for a week or so, and no matter how hard I try to stretch, kneed or contort it out of me, it remains like an uninvited party pooper.

I was grumbling to myself and shifting uncomfortably in my seat at the breakfast table when I randomly thought of a bridal shower gift I had received: a half hour massage. Oh, glorious day! Why hadn't I thought of it before?

It was actually a gift package, a one-of-everything certificates, and I had already scratched off eyelash tinting (looked like I had smudge mascara beneath my lower lashes at first), a facial (where I was red-faced and peeling for a week afterward) and a scalp massage and deep conditioning treatment that was anything but. I was a little hesitant, since I wasn't immediately impressed with my other services but thought, hey, could it get any worse?

I called to make an appointment and to my surprise they had an opening in a few hours. And here I was, thinking that I better call and reserve now because I wouldn't be able to get in until next week. I envisioned more days filled with pain and not being able to look all the way right; nights of tossing and turning in bed, waking up stiff in the morning and constantly stretching my back. It was a relief and I jumped on the opportunity. "Sure, 11:15 is great!" I told the receptionist. "Would I be able to get the manicure today as well?"

"Well, your manicure has been voided because you were late to the appointment before."

"Really? When I talked to them that day, I explained that I was coming from out of town and don't have a cell phone, so couldn't call to let you know that I was running late. " I felt the blood rush to my face. They had mixed up the times and yes, okay, fine, I was running a little late but nothing too serious. We're talking 15 minutes! It was the day before my wedding for crying out loud, and this was my nail appointment! Give the bride a little benefit of the doubt, eh?

"Okay, Let me check with my boss. Do you still want to come in at 11:15?"

Driving into town I obsessed with the time, constantly glancing at the minutes as they changed. There was no way I was going to be late for this appointment. I need this damn knot out of my back and they're not going to void it!

Melanie brought me to the back room. She was rotund and smiley with hairspray-matted hair and layered black clothing. I followed her to the third room where she explained what our session would entail. I happily slid under the sheets and pressed my face into the halo.

Thirty minutes and six classical songs later, I exited feeling a little limber but definitely not cured.

"Thanks Molly. Lisa is ready for your manicure right over there," she said and turned on her heals to go clean up the room.

"Oh, but. So, I'm getting a manicure?" I stammered as I walked towards the black towel covered table. Lisa was of Asian decent and and pushed her butterfly framed glasses up while reaching for nail files on her tip-toes. I had prepared myself for not getting one and found this both a kink in my newly formed afternoon plan and a little frazzling, but why the heck not?

I choose a dark merlot colour and wheeled myself up to the table. It began silently. I glanced around the room at the pedicure massage chairs, the sterilizers with fingerprints muddying up the glass covers and at "Lisa's" small framed wedding photo to my left.

"You're married now, right?" She asked. How did she know? I thought for a moment I was being spied on, but then logic returned and I remembered that I must have mentioned it in one of my previous trips.

"Yes. almost two months now." I was hopeful to return to the silence we were previously enjoying, but Lisa was not.

"I'm married. My husband is a marine... He has problem you know?"

This was heavy ground. A marine with problems? I was hoping to numb my mind with such things as the weather and local gossip -- not like I know any -- but Lisa was obviously not.

She continued to talk about how she got married at the age of 21. How her husband had moved all around the U.S. and even went to Iraq while she stayed in Maine. She talked about her 14 month old daughter and their disciplinary strategies, how she wanted to let her daughter out of the corner, but he said no.

I came to know that her husband's mother was a heavy drinker and drugger and wanted nothing to do with Lisa's child and that they didn't get along at all. That her husband constantly fights with them and they offered him no support when he was overseas and completely relied on her.

I know that Lisa's mother has three grandchildren now. That her family came to Maine four years ago and her sister and her husband live in Maine as well.

She wanted to be a Doctor or a lawyer. Not a beautician.

Her husband is disabled. "That's' what they say, disabled. And he is. He needs help," she told me. But he wants to go back into the military and she thinks he's selfish because he is a good father and husband. She'll leave him if he doesn't get help. She's thinking about it.

Her eyes lit up as she spoke about college in Virginia and how she was in a sorority. She had a loud voice despite her petite size and partied in D.C. Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.

I sat there, my hands in hers, listening and nodding. I chirped in with "oh, yeah" and "right" a few times, but basically listened as she unloaded everything that was wrong in her life onto me and my nails.

When she was finally finished, she looked at me and shrugged. Her lips pouted in a disappointment, "okay, you're finished."

I felt like I should give her a hug. Tell her I'd call her.

She hovered as I paid the cost. (Yeah, they charged me the difference of my manicure from switching it with the eyebrow wax I was never going to have there.) I tried to keep the conversation going with the receptionist so Lisa would walk away and I could tip her. She didn't, so I tipped her anyway and said my goodbyes. I wanted to tip her more.

I studied my nails against the black of the steering wheel. Was it all just for pity tips? Naw. I put on my seat belt and stretched the sore muscle in my back.

It has been a long time...

2008-11-08T12:15:00.004-05:00

Wow, how long has it been now? I feel like I haven't written on here in ages and look at all the major life events that have happened! Shame on me for being emotionally overwhelmed and in turn avoiding this blog in a lame attempt to stifle an outpouring of emotion.

So, I suppose I owe it to you all -- if there even is a "you all" who still read this blog -- to recap what has been going on in the life of Molz.

On Mother's Day (05 2008) I made a phone call to my Mum to wish her a happy day of the Mom. Instead of the usual friendly banter of what's new, it took an unpleasant turn to worry. She was having trouble swallowing and an endoscopy had found a mass in her throat/esophagus. Now, let's be honest, we all want to be positive and light-hearted about such findings, but with our family history, worry was the order of the day. Of course, I didn't let my Mother know my distraught, and reassured her that all may be okay. Meanwhile, what was really going on with me was an overpowering feeling of doom; a dark shadow that was swiftly spreading throughout my body whispering the words, oh, no.

Over the next few weeks we found that it was indeed cancerous. Things deteriorated to the point where my mother couldn't eat. I had planned on coming home to visit mid June anyway, so against my instinct and out of respect for my mother who requested I wait, I came home as planned (okay, I bumped it up a few days, but she doesn't know). This trip gave me a chance to see for myself, first hand, what was really going on. Being on the other side of the globe and getting information second hand was incredibly difficult and upon my arrival, it was obvious -- I was moving back home.

That leads into "THE BIG MOVE BACK".
I returned to Thailand and my supportive fiance, and together we closed everything up, ready to move back in 3 weeks. (this is a long story in itself and will have to wait.) The only thing that I regret is that my beloved cat, Chumpoo, could not come with us. How I miss that cat. I can't even explain to you how much that cat meant to me. She was my confidant, little sidekick and best friend. Yeah, I said it, so what? Roll your eyes if you must, that cat was one in a million.

(Re)welcome to America:
The theme song was "I want to live in Ah-mer-ica" from West Side Story. We were looking at the positive. We were ready to see some family and spend some time with friends. Ah, the crisp New England air (in July), the "red snappers" hot dogs, pot roast and traffic rules -- it was good to be back. We jumped from place to place, home to home, pullout couch to pullout couch, visiting and trying not to brag of life exotic.

I went to doctors appointments, double-checked facts and cooked and cleaned. I was here and it was much better than being on the outside and helpless. I was glad to be with my Mum, I love her tremendously.

Sound The Wedding bells!
Screw September 2009, let's go with THIS September! Why not? We're here. My Mum will be there, older relatives... let's do this! (In hindsight -- holy crap. We planned a wedding in 2 months. That's crazy! But then again, it just goes to show that you don't really need a year + to plan. Although in some aspects, I wish I had.) So September 13, 2008 was deemed the day o' love between Molly and Erik and off we went on crazy long-distance planning (Erik was in Mass at the time and I in Maine with my Mum). Stress and more stress, tears of both joy and extreme frustration, hugs and shrugs, kisses and "kiss my ass", and all the other lovely struggles of a new couple trying to cope with planning the wedding they want while also readjusting to life in America and trying to assist an ailing family member. Oh, what fun! But we got through it.

The day was pretty much perfect and everyone had a blast. (this lends itself to a longer piece as well). Another major life occurrence complete!

So as you see, we've been very busy with life. Every challenge and quibble that crosses our path we take in stride. It's all part of the crazy journey of life. And what a crazy journey it has been and continues to be.

In a Flash

2008-03-28T08:01:00.003-04:00

Sunday, Easter Sunday actually, was the second time my life has been saved by wearing a helmet.

It was a loud smack of plastic and metal — then black. My head was heavy and my vision was cloudy as if I were pulling it up through a thick fog. I was half on my side — I think. I remember rolling over to find my fiancé, face down in the cement with the motorbike on top of him, a pool of blood where his face lay on the pavement.

That’s when I went all adrenalin.

I scrambled across the street, my depth perception off. He appeared close, but was far to reach. Like a dream where you try to run but go nowhere as if stuck in quicksand, I couldn’t get to him fast enough. I tried to wake him. Did I shake him? I don’t remember. I called his name. I tried not to move him too much. I think I felt his pulse. I looked around. Where was I? Brightly lit storefronts and Thai faces, pavement and night. I think someone was wearing a pink shirt. They were standing back — the faces — off to the side. I lifted my lead-weight body and struggled toward them.

“Hospital! Ambulance! Someone call…” I trailed off. Why weren’t they doing anything? “Hospital! Call an Ambulance! Help!” I screamed. I think I shook one of them, panic setting in. Oh, shit. I have to tell them in Thai. What’s the word for hospital? Erik. Blood. Help. Hospital. Erik. Pain. Help. My mind was too jumbled. What the hell do I do? Oh God, Erik.

Did I pull out my phone and dial the emergency number, shoving it in a Thai’s hand? I may have. It’s unclear. I stumbled back to Erik. “Erik! Baby, wake up!” He moaned and lifted his head off the pavement a little. I could see his bewilderment. “Oh my God! Erik. Thank God, don’t move!” I turned back to the crowd, “Help! Hospital!” Erik lifted himself up, shaking his head to clear away his own settled fog. He touched his face and his eyes widened at the realization. That’s when I became a bit hysterical. Because I think it sank in at that moment for me, the severity of what just happened.

“Tighten up!” He said to me as the tears flowed from my swollen eyes. Oh my God he’s alive. Thank God he’s alive, and walking. Oh my God he’s walking. And talking. “Is it bad?” he asked me. “Okay, um.” I swallowed hard, catching my breath and trying to focus. “Um, okay, there’s a deep cut above your lip, and your chin. Oh God, you’re bleeding everywhere. Uh, shit. Are you okay?”

“Molly! Get a hold of yourself!” he snapped at me. I did need to get a hold of myself, but for crying out loud, he was just unconscious in a pool of blood and I was relieved he was okay. “Let’s just go. Come on!” He said in his haze.

“Erik, baby, sit down. Just wait for help. You need to go to the hospital… HELP!”

“Okay. You’re right.”

“Somebody help! HELP!” Hos-pi-tal!”

“Calm down.”

“Why won’t they help us? HELP!” I choked.

Blackness

My memory returns and the ambulance is there. Erik’s on a stretcher and they’re wheeling him inside, the legs of the stretcher buckling in. A neck brace supports his head and catches small pools of blood, his lip has swollen to enormous sizes. I want to scream. I probably did. I have Erik’s hand, and I’m choking back tears as the swab his face. I hear a knock on the back door. My friends, who had left the dinner we were all at moments ago just a few minutes after us, had seen the accident and stopped. I opened the hatch in a frenzy.

“Call Eva. Just call Eva.” I plead with them, knowing that she, my best friend, would know what to do. I closed the hatch hastily and off we went, my hand still in Erik’s as he fell in and out of awareness. A mixed group of paramedics, if one can call them that, surrounded the bed, attending to him. My eyes met those of a Thai boy, he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old, as he held Erik’s head in place. I smiled meekly at him. Hold it tight.

We got to the hospital in good time. Surprising as I regularly see ambulances stuck in traffic jams, no one budging an inch for the injured. I don’t remember much of the ride, because I think I was going in and out of hysterics. Blackness. I remember crying uncontrollably, then collecting myself in a second’s time if needed. Jesus Christ, I was a fucking mess.

Erik received stitches in his upper lip and chin. I remember them putting a needle into his lip, blood oozing out as he shut his eyes, clenched in pain. That’s when they took me away to clean my wounds. “Erik, baby, are you okay?” I yelled across the hospital.

“I’m okay. I’m right here.” He answered back. We continued that for some time, until a stern nurse came and told me to shush up. It only made me want to know more. “Are you okay?” I called again, giving her the stink eye in defiance. The Thai people all around me were yelling to each other. “Thank you.” I turned to the nice nurse who was cleaning my wounds. Minutes later Eva and her Uncle Bruce arrived. They were on top of everything. And from then on, I relaxed. Well, by relaxed I mean I lost it. I just let the whole thing crash down on me and released all my suppressed fear — I thought he was dead.

The following day we went back to claim the bike. It had an estimated 4500 baht worth of damage to it. But it’s our helmets that scared me the most. Big gashes and scraps mark the sides and tops. My visor in broken in several places and Erik’s is completely broken off.

Imagine if those were our heads? I wouldn’t be telling you this story right now.

Fashionistas Fashion Nightmare and Other Oddly Paired Couplings of Clothes

2008-01-04T02:41:00.001-05:00

Thais lova-ze- leggings. Was it Mary-Kate (or Ashley) Olsen who brought the early 90's raging tights back for more a few years ago? I remember pictures of them in People Magazine and other celebrity obsessed publications rocking an over sized sweater and calf-length leggings. I had to do a double-take-I at first thought it was a picture of me in third grade.

Comfortable, semi-flattering on the right body type, fancy-free when paired with skirts as the whole "sit like a lady!" thing is dismissed and stretchy-- you got to hand it to leggings, they've come back like the Spice Girls tour. Every shop in Thailand has a mannequin with a pair of disgustingly 90's leggings (you know the ones, with lace on the bottom {I think I just threw up a little in my mouth}) and paired with an over sized shirt/dress.

Just the other day I was on Phi Phi Island, perusing the shops for something to go home with, when my friend and I saw an item we both liked. "I could use a dress in this colour," I said as I removed it from the rack.

"I'm a fan of the sea-foam," my friend replied holding the dress up to her shoulders so that it draped down her body. "Wait, is this a dress... or a shirt?"

"What do you mean?" I chuckled back, proceeding to hold my black version up to my body.

Each fell to just under the crotch, Dangerously mini. But was it intended to be a dress? Could it be? I mean, come on, Thailand is famous for it's bar-girl scene... but seriously, really? We exchanged quizzical looks as the Thai salesman stood in the background. We didn't want to seem clueless, but, well, we were. "Oh, I get it. The legging combo!" I pointed to a mannequin in the standard attire.

"Come on. Just make a decision. Shirt or dress!" my friend exclaimed as she shoved the shirt/dress back on the rack. "That just makes me not want to buy it. It's confused for crying out loud. Who wants confused clothes?"

I think on average, 4 out of 5 Thais rock the legging combo. Mary-Kate or Ashley must be proud. A whole country is now obsessed with the stretchy, clinging clothes item. I can't even find a decent pair of pants... or a normal shirt for that matter.

Who Scared Off the Holiday Spirit?

2007-12-12T11:05:00.001-05:00

It's hard to plan ahead when one isn't surrounded by the holiday spirit as one is back in the U.S.A. For instance, I just purchased Christmas cards today. Why so late? Well, because I had no idea that Christmas had snuck up on me and was only 2 weeks away. AND to top it all off, they need to be sent like, yesterday in order to get to the U.S. in time and not to be New Years cards...or Valentines Day cards for that matter. I guess I'll draw hearts on them just in case. It can't hurt to be cautious.

The grips of holiday consumerism is only just starting to seep in and poke it's very expensive head around the corner here. Although I did find myself mindlessly fingering trinkets and holding clothes I'd "never in a million years" dream of even putting on my body in Central Festival, the local mall, today. I must have wasted 2 hours of my day just meandering around aimlessly looking for something to, um, look at. I had an interest in uninteresting things and glanced at price tags as if I was pondering if I could buy the item. And all this in a person who, for the most part (unless I have a pocket full of cash), is an in and out shopper.

I now realize that the 2 hours of floating around was just sacrifice for that nostalgic feeling of home and the holiday spirit. Christmas tunes like Jingle Bell Rock, and We Wish You a Merry Christmas were quietly playing under the non-suspecting ears of shoppers just trying to avoid the heat. I was snapping my fingers to the beat of Frosty the Snowman through a bra sale and moping to Blue Christmas in the shoe department. Myself, I originally went in to fix my Ipod. A true mission. But was taken in by the woeful melodies of seasonal favourites. Christmas trees and their accompanying accoutrement dangled, twinkling. Garlands and Santa hats were suffocating turtlenecked mannequins with snowflake embroidered scarves.

And it was as if I was in any mall.
Anywhere.
Possibly even home.

Time really does move quickly here. That could be why I blinked, and it's Christmas. Maybe because there is so much to do and one isn't holed up from the cold, layered under blankets and gripping a mug of soup. The sun is shining when one wakes up and the beach is always beckoning. There are no significant seasons like winter and its opposite, summer. It's just... nice, maybe raining sometimes, but even that isn't significant enough to base a time period around for the most part, although we do refer to it as the wet season, or the newly appointed p.c. name of "the green season".

I do miss big, fat chunks of snow landing on my nose and coating my eyelashes as I walk. I miss sticking my tongue out and twirling, instant snowball fights among strangers, coming inside and shaking a cloud of snow onto the floor, hot cocoa like my Aunt Kay use to make on the gas stove with the iron kettle, going sliding with friends and pulling donuts in empty parking lots. I don't miss being cold though, I HATE being cold.

Sand angels just aren't the same, and quite honestly, get a little uncomfortable after a while. Mudball fights are fun, but lack the impact of a hardened and well-sculpted ball of snow. Mudmen crumble and torrential rain can land on your nose and eyelashes, but you might as well be swimming.

So I bought my Buddhist inspired Christmas cards, down in the basement of the mall, tucked away in some back corner after realizing that I had been in the mall for 2 hours. Maybe I missed that holiday shopping feeling: that giddy, cartwheeling-stomach feeling of knowing you're getting something great for someone else. The smiles and cheerful mood that people seem to be in (before the mad rush to finish shopping). Hopeful children. Knowing that you will be surrounded by family and friends. But, that last feeling vanished as I exited the swinging doors of the mall, the short, uniformed security guard saluting me as he is required to do. The heat hit me and I was back in Phuket. Another Christmas abroad.

Then I got to thinking about last year: Erik and I sitting on the beach, two recliners under a colourful umbrella, swimsuits and Santa hats. We had a picnic on the beach. No, a FEAST on the beach. We ate chicken with our fingers and washed them off in the salty sea. We drank champagne and opened presents while the sun shone down on us and the waves crashed against the white sand. The white sand... we did have a white Christmas after all. And a memory so unmistakably special, it will be forever etched in our minds.

Will Christmas come and go, insignificantly in my daily life because I'm not reminded of it as I would be in America? I don't have a television, so Charlie Brown's Christmas Special won't be playing. There's no need to put on boats and snow pants (nor a long-sleeved shirt for that matter). The only thing resembling Christmas lights on houses are the "girly bars (prostitution bars)" with their flickering bulbs, but that's everyday, every night. Perhaps I'll revisit the mall. If only for a short time, just to catch a tune, to hear a classic representation of that holiest of holiday seasons. Who knows, I may even see a Thai Santa.

Twisted Firestarter

2007-11-12T20:54:00.001-05:00

When I can, I shoot home for lunch. My house is only about 8 minutes from my office and sometimes it's just nice to be at home to munch a meal as opposed to sitting in a mini restaurant alone. But it sure does enlighten you on what goes on when you are away.

I took the right onto my street, cruising at a normal speed. In front of me, roughly where the entrance to my house should be, was a small child about 4 years old. As I got closer I realized that indeed, he was in front of my gate. He was facing my house and looked up guiltily as I swooped in to park my car -- my eyes were on him. What was he doing in front of my house? Is my house gate locked? Yes, it is...

As I was collecting my things to exit my vehicle, I kept my gaze in him. I was curious! I noticed he had something in his hand. What was it? He was turning his shoulder in to hide it from me, but as he began scratching something he became entranced and forgot to hide what he was doing.

A small orange glow burst into fire and he flicked the flaming match toward where he now stood, the garbage. Wait a minute... this kid was flicking burning matches at my house? Talk about letting kids play with fire! He must have forgotten I was in my car, staring in bewilderment at this complete clash of western child rearing. He started lighting the matches one after the other, shooting them into the brush that surrounds my garbage can. Oh, this was too much.

"Mai chai." I called to him as I stepped out of my car. He smirked back at me, not sure what to do at this farang telling him no. I gave him my sternness teacher face and "oh-no-you-don't" face and watched him for a minute. He smirk and turned his shoulder back in, lit another and flung it.

"Tam arai? Mai tam tee nee. Bpai, bpai!" I said to him, no getting a bit concerned for the neighbourhood in general. We got a pyro on our hands. This is the health video we used to watch in elementary school about NOT playing with fire. This was the X-Files episode of how the crazed pyromaniac kid began. Where was his mother? Does he have a mother?

I stood staring him down, now honestly concerned with the welfare of my neighbourhood. The match book will eventually run out, I know. But will he get another? Then thoughts of him graduating to hurting animals shot into my mind. Where's Chompoo? I scooped her up as she lazily made her way to my ankle. The kid continued to send flaming matches towards the grass as he casually meandered down the road.

Good thing I came home for lunch...

Bugs

2007-09-12T03:15:00.002-04:00

I've been startled awake in the night by a flitting metallic flutter twice now. Once, sleeping on my back, I felt it on my stomach. Blearily, I swiped at it, and much to my surprise a torrent of crunchy sounds, like long nails itching dry skin, made its way up my torso. Much more awake, I lept up from my comfortable position and frantically pulled back the blanket, wiping the sheets. Of course, it was pitch dark so my imagination took charge: a giant spider, small rodent...cockroach? By this time my partner had been roused and was just flipping on the light switch in the heat of annoyance when my right hand made contact. It felt like crumpled paper, and I automatically withdrew my hand in disgust and fear- hey, I didn't know.

With lights on, we caught a glimpse of the bugger, er, bug. A cockroach, the size of a tube of lipstick was scurrying under my night table. My brow furrowed and my skin crawled. It had been IN MY BED! Under my covers! The most sacred, secure, personal place possible. It had snuggled up against me in it's own dirty way. Did it lay eggs in my belly button? Will I be infested with cockroach babies? Is there a colony under my sheets? The horrors flashed in my minds eye, and in an almost trance I sat pondering these disgusting possibilities while my partner was searching around for something to whack it with.

"Don't just sit there! Find something to get it with. Where did it go? Molly? Molly!" I shook the thoughts away and timidly peeked over the side of the bed. I felt violated. Utterly violated by an ancient insect deemed to have survived throughout history's most tragic events. I held myself and looked at Erik with pleading eyes, if there was ever a time to play the female roll, it was now. Things like "icky" and "yucky" flew out of my mouth with such ease in an air of helplessness. I was recovering from the ordeal when the night table was pushed to one side and the invader exposed. Oh, this bastard was going down!

I sat on my knees perched on the side of the bed looking down as Erik's arm raised in preparation. The cockroach, golden-brown, went for the underneath of the bed and with a triumphant WHAP! Erik's arm had brought the newspaper of fury down. We exchanged glances and he carefully looked under the flattened paper. All was still, the dark body not moving. We breathed a sigh of relief and, just as Erik went to get up, the damn thing made way towards a shaded corner. The newspaper was re-rolled and the battle began again. I cheered on from the sidelines, loathing the dirty bugger, wishing for its death and demise. I had been roached for crying out loud! My hero, my newspaper armed hero! Hoo-rah for the gladiator. May he bring the beast down!

After repeated WHAPS, a fury of local news, the body lay still. With a smooth motion, Erik lifted the contorted body onto the paper and went to toss it out. I sat a while, trying to ignore the feeling. I had to let it go, I couldn't dwell on it because then I would never sleep. It's that weird phenomena that, if you do find, say, a bug in your bed, even if you get that one bug out and fail to find anymore bugs, you can still feel their little legs all over you, or chomping on you, depending on the species one is dealing with.

I couldn't let it win. I had to shake it off, play cool. Get some darn sleep. I crawled back into bed with my defender after shutting off the light and forced my mind elsewhere. In Thailand you have to, because in reality, there probably is a cockroach party going on, and you don't WANT to know it.

The second encounter:

My family was visiting and, being good hosts, Erik and I gave up our bed so that our guests would be comfortable. I didn't mind sleeping on the floor in my living room. Erik even saw it "as an adventure- like camping". The nights went by fine. Sleeping was comfortable and waking up even easier. Until one night, I was having an unusually hard time falling asleep. I tossed and turned for a while and eventually faded off into dreamland. It wasn't long before I felt something on my ear -- that sensitive spot behind it where your hairline ends and a small soft patch of skin is left -- I was half asleep, half dreaming it, when I went to actually itch the area.

The metallic contact and flitting of wings shot me awake. Another one! Behind my ear! It had only been a month or so since my last violation from the insect world and I was again grossed out beyond all means. But, I had to breath and take it in stride. I had felt the body fall from the area behind my ear, tumbling down my chest to my pillow. I casually wiped the area, felt no body, and tried to convince myself it was a dream. Otherwise, I would have never fallen back asleep. Was it a cricket? Another cockroach? I shook the thought away. One can't be certain in the black of night. Just let it roll off you, roll over, and play cool.

And that's just night time visits of what I know of....

Adaptations to Life in SE Asia

2007-06-27T05:16:00.000-04:00

There are many things that I have adapted to since moving abroad to this area of the world. As a Westerner, you are raised with certain "standards" in your living quarters, food preparations, quality, service, privacy etc...almost a culture of sterile cleanliness. (Please pass the hand sanitizer) It's difficult to change the preconcieved notions of right and wrong, or in better terms- correct ways of doing things.

Is there a "correct way" to do things? My Father would say that there is a correct way to mop the floor. My Boss would say there is a correct way to organize my computer. My college friends would say that there is a correct way to drink tequilla. But is there a correct way to live? Now, don't take that heavy-handed. It's more of a live in the cultural aspect than lifestyle and judgement calls.

For instance, is it unacceptable to eat dog? Westerners say a unanimous "Hell yes!" While Vietnamese lick their chops while saying "Unacceptable, you mean decadent." Is it acceptable to have sex with a pre-pubesent girl? Some cultures embrace it while we Westerners cringe at the thought, Child Protective Services dialed in the phone's keypad.

One has to accept that differences exist; there is a great big world out there, filled with cultural juxtapositions. Who are we to cast judgements?

I thought I'd do a little series on:

ADAPTATIONS OF A TRAVELER
-adaptations in Thailand

#1. Knarly meat:

As a child I would sit at the kitchen table performing surgery on my pork chop. If even the slightest vein of fat resided in my medialian of pork - it had to go. Fat on the edge of a steak? Puh-lease. I'll nibble on the meaty heart of the slab leaving a 1/2 inch border to the slimy lard. Biting into fat was as bad as getting a swirly in the toilet, but even more repulsive. The idea of chewing fat- the chewy nub secreting the foul juices into your mouth, resisting all attempts to swallow and forget - had to be promptly removed and tucked into a napkin (or fed to the awaiting cat).

Here, I've learned to happily suck the meat off bones, ignoring tendons and dark areas of meat (before deemed off-limits) as I chew and enjoy. I casually remove chunks of cartiledge, bristled shards of bones, and uncompromising pieces of fat without blinking an eye. Normalcy of accepted dining practices of removing these obtrusive objects and putting them on your plate mid-munch has helped greatly. No one scowls at you as you pull out the rib of a fish- good thing you pulled out that rib of that fish!

Honestly, the "quality" (I put it in quotes because it is referring to the accepted quality of my culture and not of others) is completely different. If I was as picky as I once was, I don't think I could eat. Why, I'd starve! Hunger forces you to change standards, and all standards are different across the globe.

Next... bugs.

Apologies

2007-06-06T03:30:00.000-04:00

I know, I know! It's been waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long. But it's been a very hectic few, er month or so.

First off, the freakin mother cat kit-napped the kittens to the neighbor's yard. We haven't heard peep nor squeal in weeks. The mystery remains. Did she pull a demented mother move? Does she suffer from post-pardum depression? It all remains in the vast unknown. All we know is that she isn't welcome if she snuffed out the little bumpkins.

Second, I have a new job. No longer will I shape the minds of youths. (for the time being anyway) I have landed my *potential* dream job. I'm Associate Editor for a magazine that covers the Asian-Pacific region. Now, if I can just get some travel incorporated in that! It's going well, for the most part. I get business cards and the whole she-bang.

So, as you can see I've been consumed of late. I haven't forgotten you. I just had other things that took precedance. So, for a peace offering I give you my (soon to be published) first on assignment piece I wrote on a club in Patong, Phuket for the magazine in which I am staff writer for:

(and remember dear readers, if you write comments- I will write more)

Seduction Discotheque
Molly F. McGill

The night was ripe with mischief. Delinquent youths were already dropping to the ashen concrete in their novice haze. Didn’t they know that Patong didn’t really heat up until midnight? If one wants to survive Patong-the party haven of Phuket- one needs to know three things: How to hold their liquor, how to budget, and where to go.

The first two were well achieved when I found myself among what seemed like inebriated gazelles bounding down Patong’s Bangla Road. Being the low season the streets were noticeably less packed, one just had to avoid a collision with the frolicking cervine. It made for easy walking- without worrying of losing the pack unlike those blurring nights of high season jollies. To my left soi’s opened up between two guardian bars at the entrance (like Peter only a lot less interested in your sins and a bit more interested in your money) waiting to swallow you into the belly of belligerence. I grimaced and kept walking. This night called for something else.

A little more than half way up the debaucherous road I felt a magnetic pull to the side off Rat-U-Thit Road. A red carpet, plush and hinting at a bit of class among the riff-raff galumphing down the street, lured me towards it. I couldn’t resist and was instantly drawn into the crimson current. Cresting the top of the stairs, two men in black wai’ed me as they opened the large glass doors, I flashed a million dollar smile as the invisible paparazzi snapped coy photos of me to print the next day.

I had entered the loins of Seduction Discothèque, the pulsating beats causing my body to throb as I made my way through the smiling crowd. Ten bartenders, split between front and back bars, all aimed to please. They asked for my order with genuine concern and eagerness, “Would you like a drink? We take very good care of customer at Seduction.” I couldn’t help but stifle a girlish giggle as the suave gentlemen spun and mixed my drink. I bet you do.

An illuminated column of orange neon that shelved the night’s spirits drew my eyes upward to the second floor. Shimmering, a massive disco ball dangled from the rafters. Like a barracuda attracted to shiny objects I instantly wanted to get closer, but to my dismay the second floor was not in use this night. That heralds more fortuitous nights of bigger crowds. Slipping into my mind’s eye I pictured the masses wrapped around the banisters looking down towards the main dance floor. Gents would be picking out the lucky lady and the ladies would be playing hard to get to the ogling gents. This created an ableing environment for passion to ignite at the aptly named Seduction Disco.

Dancing along the catwalks towards the second bar in the back, I made a detour onto the dance floor as one of the three DJ’s spun a hot track. I bobbed to the music in front of the booth where the two local DJ’s and the guest DJ from Finland were flipping records. Making my way onto the dance floor, I sassily stepped onto the center stage and took full advantage of the 360 degree view. Scanning the crowd my eye caught both seducer and the seduced in action. Leaning into each other they tried to harness each others’ desires while keeping a cool demeanor. Lights whorled, music thumped and the crowd increased as the small hand of my watch crept around. It was past midnight and the dropped prices in drinks tempted the need for another.

The music had pulled the outer edges of the club onto the main floor in a frenzied dance. Steam was rising and bodies gyrated in curious mating rituals of yore. Feeling euphoric I returned to the bar with my empty glass and winked at my bartender. Seduction Disco was still heating up as my men in black opened the door for me to leave. I flashed that million dollar smile again and sashayed down the carpeted lane.

The night went without a hitch. I had held my own in Patong once again and had money still left in my pocket for a late night, I mean, morning, run to Seven-Eleven for some chips. It’s also… all about knowing where to go.

God Save The Kits

2007-04-30T06:55:00.000-04:00

It was a split second decision. It had been drizzling for the past half hour as we sat absent-mindedly typing away at the local internet cafe and leaving now, we wondered if we should shoot home before driving the distance to the movie theatre in the rain.
“Yeah, might as well. I want to grab my sweatshirt in case the movie theatre is cold. I’m always cold in the movies.” I spat remembering the air-conditioned chill as we rounded the circle towards home.
“Alright, then let’s grab a bite.” Erik answered as we cruised.

Pulling up to our driveway gate Erik stopped at the edge of the gutter that ran past our house and down the street. Our adopted stray cat, Skivvels or Skivvels McNiblet formally, had given birth the night before under our driveway where the gutter, a forty foot dark and dank tunnel, ran. She had decided to give birth right smack dab in the middle, with a whooping twenty feet on either side to reach her birthing nest. Unable to: A) fit underneath ourselves B) reach or C) coax the mother and her kittens out we had left her to her natural maternal instincts figuring that it was as safe a place as any and if she really needed to, she’d move the kittens up to our house. As we leaned over the side and looked into the gutter the day’s rain had begun to spill down the road and right through where the new mother and her kits were making home.

“Do you think they are okay?” I asked with a deep concern for the lives of the little balls of fluff.
“I don’t know.” Erik answered as he made his way to the other side of the gutter where it once again opened up for viewing. “The water isn’t running through to this side, so it must be draining into something.”
“Oh, good.” and with that I unlatched the door and proceeded to snatch my sweatshirt ready to high-tail it off to the movies. On my way out I remembered how hungry Erik was and went to the kitchen to quickly grab him a snack he could eat on the way. I was reaching for a bag of crackers when Erik’s voice slammed me with panic.

“Molly! Come here!” He yelled to me a little too loud to be unimportant.
“What? What is it?” I scrambled out the door, my purple plastic poncho catching on the latch. He was at the gateway and heading towards the upper opening of the gutter.
“We need to do something! I can hear them.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked lowering myself to my stomach and peering into the narrow tube. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and I strained to make out Skivvels body against the trickling water. That is when I heard the cries. Like deflating squeaky toys they chirped in panic. Skivvel’s eyes caught light and shone in my direction. I could barely make out her hovering figure against the gray light that shone through the other end forty feet away. I squinted to see if I could locate the kittens, I thought I saw some movement at her feet, just lolling little bodies flopping against the rising water. The water was a torrent now, charging into the gutter and streaming towards the terrified mother and her babes. It had risen even in those few moments that I leaned over the side and it was getting deeper with the accumulated run-off.

“Skivvels, Skivvels.” I called her name to coax her out of the dark tunnel. I clucked and called to her as she began a deep meow, her eyes glowing like green and yellow disks in the dark. She was frozen. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to leave her kittens, but she knew that they couldn’t stay either. My God, they’re going to drown if they don’t get out. The water is too high. The cries were heart wrenching.

She sat in the middle with a little body hanging from her mouth, the silouete falling against the dimming light at the other end. Trying to ease her out, we continued to call. Suddenly, I could see against the light that she was trotting toward the other end, tripping in the water and sloshing down the tunnel with the body stiff in her mouth.

“Erik! She’s going to the other side! Go! Go!”
“She has a kitten!” He called to me.
“Take it.” I coached as I made my way over. I leaned down and reached out for the kitten and Skivvels plopped the soaked body into my palm and immediately headed back into the stream. I ran with the delicate body mewing and crying in my hand to a cardboard box we had set up outside on our porch. It was alive, thank God. I wrapped the kitten in some fabric and headed back to Skivvels. Erik was still crouching at the mouth calling to Skivvels when I came rearing back.

“Molly, you call to her. She likes your voice.” I dropped to the ground and stuck my head into the opening.
“Skivvels!” I cried over the high pitched yowling of terror. I could see her fumbling with the kittens. “Skivvels! Come on baby, get another one.” At this moment we realized that we had no idea how many she had. She could have two or she could have six, we weren’t sure. But she made her way towards the light where she dropped another one into my outstretched hands. Delivering another kitten to the box I wrapped it close to its kin and headed back out. Erik was just scooping up another, a little black and white body that squealed with confusion and alarm. It clung to his wrapped wrist, its little nails catching the fabric and holding on with all of its might.
She came with another in her mouth, its limp body swaying with her scrambling steps. I plucked the kitten from her as she headed back into the darkness, her fur matted with wetness. I dropped the other off, four. I went back to the tunnel where Skivvels was roaming, calling out to her young in confusion.

“Are there anymore?” I called to Erik at the other end of the gutter.
“I don’t know.”
“She must be looking for another. See if one got washed down with the water. Go down to the end and look.” A steady stream had begun to flush through the gutter and was so rapid now I feared that we might have lost one in the stream. I called to Skivvels as she criss-crossed to either end, her green eyes wide and wild. She called up to me, shivering and confused.

“You got anymore Skivs? Any more babies? Are you just looking for your babes? Come on. I’ll show you where your babies are. Good girl, good momma.” I purred to her as I picked her up and held her under my arm. I brought her to the box where she circled her kittens and licked their heads. Erik brought me a towel and I took the three black and white ones into my lap to dry them as she licked the gray tiger kitten clean. Rolling over on her side I put the three kittens on the towel close to her to nurse. Purring loudly she stared at us bewildered. I don’t think she knew quite what had happened, but she knew that they were finally all safe.

If we wouldn’t have decided, in that split second to stop home, I don’t think there would be these cute little fluff balls on our porch right now. I’d like to believe that her maternal instincts would have kicked in and she would have realized that she needed to move her children, but she was just too wild with fright when we looked into that dark tunnel. The screaming of terrified kittens and the panic of danger was too much. If we weren’t there to have her swing the fragile bodies into our hands, I really don’t know.

But, alas. All is well and now we have a grateful mother and her four wriggling babies to attend to. Anyone want a cat?

What Type of Wat is this? Wat did you say?

2007-03-28T09:48:00.000-04:00

I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that we had just stumbled onto the set of a horror movie. Making our way through the skeletal remains of a palm field, its haggard appearance giving us a foreshadowing of danger, we emerged onto the grounds of a dilapidated wat (Buddist temple).

Being aware of the customs and proper wat etiquette, I was apprehensive to enter in my shoulder bearing tank top and shorts. But, then again, what could one expect if the wat was nestled into the side of a limestone cliff in the Thai rain forest? Dress pants and silk shirts? Hardly.

Erik and I carefully tiptoed along the worn grass path. In the distance a monk crossed and we froze like rabbits in the hunt as the orange robed man disappeared behind another building. Well, it’s definitely occupied, we decided. The rest of his family slowly made their way to us as we scanned the grounds. I was feeling like Leonardo Dicapprio in The Beach where he finds himself in a field of Marijuana and quickly learns that he shouldn’t be there as bullets whiz by his head and he has to make a mad dash to safety. Why was it so quiet here?

The sound of water behind us grabbed our attention and from inside a small wooden shack began the drizzle of a shower. Outside, draped on the banister, hung a bright orange robe. A monk was showering. How rude would it be if he opened the door and saw five Farang (foreigners) staring back at him? I can’t even imagine how many monk rules of behavior that would break- to see a naked monk! We quickened our step, coming between two buildings. I grabbed at Erik’s shirt as he moved ahead and hoarsely whispered, “A sarcophagus.” My eyes spread wide in surprise. I had never seen a casket just sitting out at a monastery. The decorative details glimmered in the sunlight as a large bronze Buddha figure sat in the corner looking on. What kind of wat is this?

Erik’s Father directed our attention to the building on our right as the others snapped pictures and gawked at the beauty of the statue. Four dogs lay lazily on the steps leading up to the poorly painted building’s inside platform revealing itself as a crematorium, its smokestack rising out of the top. Is this some sort of jungle temple? Like, monks gone mad? Are they crazy cannibal monks that the rain forest had somehow twisted and turned from Buddha? Are we just some stupid tourists stumbling into a death trap? My feet were toed- up to split at any minute.

Curiosity won us over and we continued to slink onward toward the mouth of a cave in the distance. Still cautious, I hid behind the corner of a building, peeking out as if I was a secret agent marking my target. Erik and his uncle walked down the path leading to the cave and as I watched them the inside of the cave became clearer. What was inside? What the hell is that???? A giant, red-faced Sesame Street puppet gone very, very bad sat upright encaged in a chain link fence. To its right was a large- was it papier-mâché?- jaguar in prowl mode. A few Buddha images in various positions and mediums were scattered around and alms jars lined the left side of the puppet. What had we stumbled upon? Oh, no, this was it. We had stumbled upon some sort of evil place. Maybe they had already eaten all the monks! What is that red-faced statue? Is it Satan? This can not be good. Where were all the monks? My mind raced with images of us captured and tethered together. A gigantic cauldron sat atop flames heating water to a boil as we are lead up a small coconut tree ladder to be stewed. All the while strayed monks and wild natives danced around in scraps of orange robes waving sticks and chanting incantations to the red-faced evil demon.

I snapped out of my daymare as a monkey scurried past my feet. The monkeys had followed us in and now a family of about thirty grey monkeys wrestled, chattered and played around us like some sort of watchdog to the keepers of the red-faced demon puppet. I shooed them with my hands and noticed Erik motioning for me to join from the mouth of the cave. Taking another peek around the corner, I scuttled to the cave keeping low and monkey like. Entering the cave, I felt as though I was trespassing and discovering a hidden treasure all at the same time. The call of monkeys echoed as I stood facing a large two-paned chalkboard inside the cave. Written in cursive English was the story of a giant woman who had lived in the cave many years before. It went on to tell of how the woman bore a son who, upon learning that his Mother was a giant, disowned and denounced her. Heart broken, the woman died. But, before she passed she left a pool of tears (holy water) for her son. The son learned this and was ashamed.

The red-faced puppet was, in fact, a statue of the female giant. Feeling a little relieved I wandered around the other Buddha images, wai-ing in respect. A stout monk emerged from the side of the cave and began to re-tell us the story that we had just read. His English was well defined, with only a few pronunciation problems, but a great sense of humor, “Where you frum?”

“America…East coast…Vermont.”

“Ah, America. I go to Denvah’, Cololado. You know? Many, many year ago.”

“Ah, yeah, Denver, Colorado. Sure.”

“Like Laws Vegas.” He chuckled to himself at his joke. “Many lights. Big.”
“Cold.” I added. With the rest of the family joining us, we followed the monk into the cave. Hesitantly, I stayed at the back, unfortunately not where the two flashlights were the brightest. He shone his light on a giant toad and a hiding puppy as we wound our way to the “holy water” in the depth of the cave. We came to a large room, its stone walls covered with a black Thai script. I wondered what it said as the monk pointed to a hole in the wall.

“Holy water for healing. You have the sickness, you can take. Many people feel better. Can sa-wim. Maybe one, two minutes. Feel good.” He smiled brightly and I couldn’t help but think what idiots we are to climb into this hole and dunk ourselves in stagnant cave water. Like the Blarney stone in Ireland, it’s probably a local’s joke.

“Do you go in?” I asked as two anxious family members climbed in.

“No, never need to. Don’t need.” He held his smile and I thought, what the heck. I can’t resist the promise of health after my bout with sickness in the past months. I climbed into the hole and descended the few meters down the rickety ladder to dip my fingers into the so-called “holy water”. I rubbed a little on my neck and looked into the pool. The glow of the flashlight only shone enough to see a few meters in front of us; the rest was swallowed in darkness. Then it came to me, this was it. This is when we get sacrificed to the god-knows-what rain forest beast that lives in the depth of the cave. My heart skipped and my vision blurred into the darkness. We were the stupid tourists tromping into the demon’s sacrificial liar. We were like Joe and his volcano, alright. I turned on my heel, my shoes slipping in the clay-like muck and gladly let the others climb down to the water.

I emerged from the cave to an empty room. The monk was gone. Waiting for the others to finish their death-dip, I scanned the walls with its artistic Thai writing. I wish I knew what it said. Surviving the sacrificial trap, we all made it out of the darkened cave and back into sunlight. The monk was waiting for us and chattering with the monkeys as they climbed atop the Buddha images as if to say that this area was their playground and we had better recognize that. Like little humans with tails they bounded across the dusty ground wrestling and nipping at each other.

“The monkey, he show you how they play. He show you cave. You can go up. Monkey can say, ‘No!’ You say, ‘please monkey’ and give him banana. He say mibbe one banana, mibbe two!” He erupted in laughter with his hands on his hips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stairs creaked as we wearily inched upward on their rotted boards. The stairs were built into the side of a limestone cliff with concrete, steel banisters and wooden planks. They were suspended haphazardly above rain forest brush. The monkeys joined us in our climb, chattering and twisting through the hanging overgrowth around us. I gripped the rusted banister with white knuckles as I crossed the suspension bridge, its body swerving like a snake as we crossed. Some boards were green with time and one flipped up as I put my weight on it, the nail completely rotted out. I gripped the banister harder with a slight squeak of surprise. You could see that repairs had been done…at some point, because another board was laid atop the rotted one and nailed into it.

I was Indian Jones, man. Only I didn’t have a snazzy hat and little sidekick kid to annoy me, I had sunscreen and monkeys. I envisioned the banister, old and unkempt, cracking at the point of concrete connection to the face of the cliff. The ladder would gracefully float downward, giving way from under my feet and I would have to cling to rotted board or jungle vines, pleading with the monkeys for help.

Fortunately, the boards were stable enough. Shaky legs made it to the higher platform where we were met by a male monkey, his fur fluffed in intimidation.

“Look, we don’t have any damn bananas.” Erik explained to the monkey.

“Easy, now. Just scurry along Mr. Monkey.” I chimed in. He looked at us with contempt, his eyes scanning our empty hands. Eventually he climbed to a nearby tree limb, its height directly where our heads would pass. Was he going to chomp us as we passed? The last thing we needed was a monkey bite, contracting monkey H.I.V or herpes or rabies, or God knows what else. With no bananas, bribery wasn’t an option. We carefully glided by.

The cave was filled with millions of still black bodies hanging from the ceiling and only after a light whistle did a few of them stir. It smelled dank and wet; earthy. Its darkness wasn’t exactly what I’d call inviting, but invitation or not, we went in. After we scanned the perimeter (the thought of a cave monster still lingering in the background of my thoughts) we braved the dissent of the stairs again.

The sun hung high in the afternoon’s cloudless sky; its heat burning into our skin and causing the dirt to stick to our moistened bodies. We walked out the way we entered, quiet and awestruck at the odd treasure we had unveiled. We had survived.

Back in the Running

2007-03-26T06:39:00.000-04:00

So I'm not bloated and decomposing in some ditch in the back woods er, rain forest of Thailand. I'm happy to report that my phantom rash has faded into the past (thank God) and I no longer look like some sort of Micheal Jackson Thriller video extra. I still have a cough, but the inhaler seems to be helping. I'll probably have this for the rest of my time here. What can you say though? I mean, the country has no visible emission standards, and when you're pinned between two massive lorries going 70Km/hour, you're kind of stuck sucking black smoke.

You no longer have to sign in to make a comment so, let's dialogue away!

Make it Go Away!

2007-02-26T08:32:00.000-05:00

I was in a bad dream. I thrashed around trying to get the ants off of me. I was in a thick mud and my body could feel every grain of sand. Was I awake or asleep? Was I in that in between stage? My nails raked my sore legs to try to relieve the itch but left only a burning row in its wake. Did I slough on cream I was allergic to, my face burning in response? I tossed in bed. Opening my eyes I saw that the dawn had entered my room—what time was it? Had I slept at all? My legs radiated a fire and begged for more scratching. Like a yearning for a bad drug, my growing rash needed to be fed. It didn’t matter the repercussions I would feel in ten, twenty minutes, I just needed that quick fix…

On no sleep and extremely uncomfortable I went into work. I was quickly sent on my way out to the nearest hospital. “Just get better,” they called as I whimpered out to my motorbike.

“Okay. Uh-huh. Now, uh-huh I give you injection for stop rash.” The skin doctor told me sympathetically. I had already been to the general doctor who had directed me to see the skin specialist I was with now and a chest, throat and ear specialist afterward for my deep and quickly becoming, chronic cough. A consultation with the skin specialist in the pseudo spa inspired aesthetics center had already led me downstairs for an allergy test. They didn’t tell me it was going to be a gallon syringe to milk the blood from my tiny and delicate veins. Getting blood drawn, one of my most dreaded doctor appointment necessities was over in a matter of minutes and before I knew it, I was already halfway up the stairs to return to the skin center.

“Okay,” I answered meekly standing across from her awkwardly. Am I supposed to sit? And sit where? Do I sit on the table? I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Should I wait for them to motion me? What is the Thai doctor- patient protocol? My lowered gaze snuck up to catch the shadowlike nurse’s knowing smile. I dropped my backpack to the floor and surveyed the surroundings. A small round table and two chairs made up the consulting area we had occupied earlier when the blood test was decided. The hospital bed in the room wasn’t your typical sterile white cot, either. This one was covered with a Thai-inspired tapestry with little face pillows and a contrasting throw at the foot. Was this where I was supposed to sit? It looked more like I’d be getting acupuncture or my eyebrows plucked than a medical examination in this room.

“Do you want, uh-huh, the throat doctor for, uh-huh, the cuff?” The Doctor faded back into the audible foreground. “I tink, uh-huh, is bad. Need different anti-biotic, uh-huh.” Her mouth continued to move as the audio faded out of my mind again. I couldn’t help but focus on this shot I was about to get... an injection! A needle! Somewhere on my body. Half-listening I decided to make a move toward the spa bed. As I climbed up she continued to talk of my cough and who I should see. But all I could think about is this shot. This shot, an injection, a needle! How big will it be? Where is it going to go?

Interrupting her rant I asked, “Where do I get the shot?” I just had to know. I couldn’t wonder any longer. Half of me knew where it was going to go; I just didn’t want to believe it. I can’t remember how she answered me, maybe it was the shock of realization that has made it flee my memory, but she told me—the butt. I audibly mumbled, “Oh, God,” as I began to lower myself to the bed.

“If you want, you can take only tablet. Uh-huh. And no injection, uh-huh. But I think uh-huh, better injection, uh-huh. More quickly.” I groaned in arrogance as I lay on my stomach, face planted in the soft pillow. “I tink, uh-huh, it okay.” She tried to console my dread. Yeah, sure Lady. It’s not going to be you with the sore bum. The shadow nurse swooped in and began to hike up my skirt to expose my rashed left cheek. As I felt the cool air on my exposed bottom, I could only mumble half-reassuring words to myself: It’ll be quick. It’ll be better. This will help. It won’t hurt. The nurse who had drawn my blood earlier had been like an angel, some sort of magical needle angel who could draw mass amounts of blood without any pain or prick. My faith was up. I was ready to rid myself of this hell if it took a little stab in the backside.

I imagined myself detatched from my own body looking in on the situation. How funny it would be to an outsider! The shadow nurse in her pale blue uniform would be smoothing the contrasting blanket over my legs so that it folded perfectly. The doctor at the chrome counter top would be filling a syringe with liquid and holding it up to the fluorescent light. And me, my head buried face first in the pillow or sneaking a peek at myself in the mirror at my head reflecting the absolute horror I felt. And in the center of it all, one spotted red cheek rising out of a mound of black flower printed fabric. It was like some sort of demented painting.

I did everything I could to avoid looking at the needle. If I didn’t see it, I couldn’t freak out; although, my imagination did picture it as an arm-length ice pick dramatically spurting liquid from the top as she rounded the corner of the hospital bed and approached my vulnerable rump.

“Okay, uh-huh. Injection.” She cooed as a sharp pain pierced my backside. Just as I thought, This isn’t so bad, a heat began to burn, spread and pierce.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” I moaned under my breath. It lasted only a few moments, the end of which left me paralyzed on the bed holding the burning area.

“You can sit for a moment,” the doctor reassured me as I, still frozen, made no attempt to do otherwise. After a respectable amount of stillness I rose and rolled onto my right hip to hop off the bed. I rubbed the pain with the heel of my hand, caressing the sore area. It swelled with heat and tingled with the surge of medicine. Golly, that was fun. But I knew I had more doctors to see.

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“The Doctor will see you now.” A small, white-uniformed nurse half-whispered to me. I put down my paper Dixie cup of coffee-mocha and grabbed my bag. Time to solve this chronic cough.

The chest, throat and ear specialist encouraged me to get an X-ray of my sinuses. Erik’s voice kept ringing in my head: “Just do whatever it takes to figure out what’s wrong.” However, my mind automatically went to my pocketbook.

“Miss McGill?” A petite nurse in white uniform asked me shyly as I sat sipping what was left of my free coffee-mocha blend.

“Yes.””Please come wit me.”

“Ooookay,” I said cheerily as I scooped up my bag once again and followed her. Now filled with farangs, I walked through the hospital’s first floor watching as they scarfed down large cups of cappuccinos at the small café. Suckers, I thought as I tasted the sweet cream still on my tongue. My escort was joined by another nurse and like flying geese we breezed through the lobby in patient-nurse formation. At a fork in our path the two split. Which nurse was mine? They both looked exactly alike from behind: white skirt suit, black poufy hair bow. Was mine the tall one or the short one? I chose to follow the one that branched off to the right and glanced at the other as she went left. She held some sort of Tupperware container and I knew I had chosen wisely.

Feeling a little high from the cortisone injection I was led into a small room by a sharply dressed man. “You sit here. Put nose to da’ line.” I sat on the cool metal stool, my left cheek slightly hanging off. “Like dis,” he lifted my head and stuck my nose, bridge down, against the red cross on a white screen. “Hold still.” He instructed as he backed away from me. Huh, what do you know? No heavy apron here either, just pure radiation surging through my body. Great guess we’ll add cancer to this coupling. After the second x-ray I returned to the doctor where I sat waiting, another Dixie cup of coffee-mocha in my hand. Hey, I’m going to get something out of this even if it is only six free cups of coffee.

After a briefing from the specialist on the causes of sinus infections and what a clouded sinus looks like in an x-ray, I left him. I walked towards the pharmacy/cashier with a shopping list of anti-biotics, anti-histamines, decongestants, saline nasal wash, expectorants and other anti- this and that’s. I forked over an obscene amount of money, of which I probably wouldn’t have in the states but had to in a foreign country just because I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t pick and choose what I wanted and what I didn’t want at this point, I was just too desperate to heal. They had me by the bum, and nose, and throat and went in for the pocketbook kill.

I walked out of the hospital and into the thick air to my motorbike. I had two follow-ups scheduled for the next week and a little hope tucked away in the goody bags of prescriptions given to me by both specialists. I couldn’t wait to start to feel better.

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Update:
I had to go into the hospital again on Friday. The rash was driving me insane! I have never felt so uncomfortable and irritated. It tingles with itch and I think I may be losing my mind. I can’t sleep and lay awake counting imaginary sheep until my alarm clock tells me it is time to get up. My allergy test came back and turns out I’m not allergic to any of the 40 listed items whether its beetroot, cats, or Australian tree mixes. So, that’s nice to know. Now if I could just figure out how to get rid of this damn rash. I look like Freddy Kruger and may have to only come out at night.

Washed all my clothes, sheets, towels over again and stopped using moisturizer. Pray for me.

On a good note… I can smell (kind of) again. Yeah! Now I wear a sweet white painter’s mask when I drive. Yeah, I’m hip. Go back to see that doctor Weds. Can you really develop asthma just like that?

Positive thinking… positive thinking.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Cure...

2007-02-21T07:20:00.000-05:00

“You have cuff?” The doctor asked me as she sat at her small linoleum topped desk. She fingered through the sheets of paper lined green and white with the random Molly sporadically scrawled between spiraling hieroglyphics that make up Thai writing.
“Yes.” I answered with a demonstrative deep foghorn of a cough. “And this,” I added lifting my right arm up for inspection, rotating it to give the full effect. Hemming, she scrunched her face in acknowledgement. It seemed not to concern her. So, lifting up the bottom of my skirt to reveal my thighs, I added, “See?”
“Mmmmm.” She moaned as her orange eye-shadowed eyes went from my legs to the paper. She scribbled something down continuing with her interrogation. Apparently, my rash and/or hive covered body was not impressing her. “How long you have cuff?” She asked slumped over the desk, her white frock coat hanging behind her on the mirror.
“I’ve had this cough for about 4 weeks. I got sick at the end of January. Nose, runny, then my head had pressure. My nose is fine now, but cough is bad. My ears feel like I’m under water. You know? Pressure in my ears? And now this,” I said pointing to the red blotches that threatened to cover my entire body. “I don’t know what is.”
“Hmmm. You take what color cuff?”
“The color? Oh, um yellow phlegm?”
“Uh huh, and you take sa-moking?”
“No, I don’t smoke.”
“Mmmmm, and you take womit?”
“Pardon?” I asked raising my eyebrows in total confusion. Even for my trained Thai-lish ears, this one was a bit difficult to make out.
“Womit,” she answered putting her hand to her mouth and dropping forward to the floor in a fluid motion. “You know, womit? You take?”
“No, no vomit.” I half chuckled to myself. Thai’s tend to replace certain letters with others. My boss sometimes jokes about the confusion of switching these letters and the humorous words they make. I couldn’t help but to think of her.
“Feber?”
“Uh, no fever.”
“You have athma? In family?”
“No. No one in my family has asthma.”
“Mother? Father? Sister?” She said jokingly trying to coax out a confession of asthma.
“No. No asthma.”
“Okay,” she said standing up, her small frame barely rising from the desk. Taking the stethoscope in hand she placed it on my chest. “Breathe big.” I inhaled as big as I could making sure to rattle the mystery disease around a little so she was sure to hear it. “Again.” Again I breathed deeply, the phlegm vibrating like a rattler’s tail in my upper chest. She has to be hearing this.
“You hab wheezy in your chess. I tink maybe asthma because wheezy.”
“I don’t have asthma,” I shot back. I am 24 years old for crying out loud. I know that I am sick, that it isn’t asthma.
“Uh-huh. I think you take X-ray of chess.”
“X-ray?” My mind raced to dollar signs. How much would that cost? And it’s not like I have a freakin’ broken rib or something. What are they going to see in an X-ray? “I don’t know…”
“Yes, I think you do because lule out infectious. Okay? I think better.” She smiled and nodded knowingly to me. Her forced curly hair scrunched into a layered mullet stiffly moving as she encouraged even more deeply, her body leaning towards mine. Looking around the room for inspiration and the correct answer to be written on the wall, my eyes met with those of Donald Duck’s, Goofy’s and Mickey Mouse’s. Cartoon characters danced in colorful costume on the low walls of the room and I, I was in the center of it all. Is this a joke? Is she a pediatrician? Is she the only available doctor? Why am I in the little kiddy room? Hey, maybe I get a lollipop?
If this was the only way to make progress in this visit, I was left without a choice. “Okay. X-ray.” I had already inquired of the price and knew that Erik, sitting in the waiting room, would scold me if I didn’t take this precaution. “But what about this?” I begged showing the red blotches on my arms and legs. This was really worrying me, more so than the cough.
“What you take for cuff?”
“I took cough tablet and anti-histamine, for nose. Then I went back to pharmacy because it was not working. He gave me more cough tablet,” I pulled out the green tablets from my bag, “and more anti-histamine. Then he gave me anti-biotic, Amoxicillin. I took for about five days and still not better. I have stopped taking Amoxicillin for five days. Only thing different is that I ate honey Thursday and Friday. I got spot on my leg here.” I lifted my skirt again to the red blotched area on my thighs “So, I stopped eating honey. I woke up this morning and now it is all over my body.”
“Mmmmm. You eat honey?”
“Yes, but never allergic to honey before.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“And I am allergic to Penicillin, but I took Amoxicillin before and I was fine.”
“Mmmmm. I think, maybe, you eat honey and you allergic.” Yeah, thanks lady, I just said that.
“It’s not Measles? Person at my work had German Measles. It’s not that, right?” I nodded to her hoping for some recognition of the disease.
“You hab feber?” Didn’t we go over this?
“No, no fever. I feel fine.”
“You take sa-moking?” Are you kidding me?
“No, I don’t smoke. Do you think allergic to something?” My frustration was mounting. I felt like I was diagnosing myself.
“Yeeees, I tink allergic. Maybe honey. Okay?” Nodding to me she turned and pushed a button on the wall, lighting up a red light bulb above. A nurse came in and gathered my chart. They spoke in Thai as I kneaded my hands together. X-ray? What’s an X-ray going to do?
I dressed in a red smock, its ties coming together in the front in a kind of Eastern flare. Murmuring to myself, I exited the restroom and took my position in front of the giant screen. The technician positioned my body and instructed me not to move as he left the room. What? No protective covering anywhere? Apparently Thailand has yet to realize the potentially harmful effects of over exposure to the ol’ X-ray gun. Or is it that the West is just a little too protective? Things you think are normal everyday precautions, like refrigerating eggs, go by without a second glance here. I guess my body will just take on a little more radiation than normal today- all in the sake of science, of course.
I took a seat waiting for the X-ray to be developed. My grumpy technician came out of the room and held a dark chest X-ray up to an illuminated board.
“Is that you?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know. Looks good though.”
“Looks like a chest.” He grinned at me looking up from the pages of his massively fat book. Smiling back coyly, I poked him in the ribs.
Soon enough I was back in kiddy wonderland. Waiting, the Doctor gestured for me to sit. Fumbling with the folder holding the X-ray, she awkwardly maneuvered around me. I motioned for Erik to come in with me as he sat peeking through the crack of the sliding screen door.
”X-ray good. Lule out selious infection.” She said holding it up to the light. Making her way back to the desk, heels clicking on the floor, she added, “No Tuberculosis. No Pneumonia. Dat’s good. We know not selious infection.” My eyes met with Erik’s and I saw him wanting to add more.
“But the rash. What about this?” He asked.
“I tink allergic to da honey.” She said smiling.
Gee, looks like now I’m a Doctor. I feel like I made my own diagnosis. I feel kind of cheated, a little let down by the Thai health system. All I can do is take the medicine she gave me and hope it works. Guess we’ll see.
* To be continued… The plot thickens over the next few days.

Chun Pu

2007-02-16T01:05:00.000-05:00

We have a new addition to the household. She is small, but she sure is a handful!

Erik and I were coming home from a dinner out with friends. It was just getting dark as we stopped at the local market to pick up some fruit for our long bus ride the next day. You can never count on the “lunch and snacks” the bus company promises, so we are always sure to carry a few snacks ourselves.

I hopped off the back of the motorbike as Erik wheeled it to a stop in the loose dirt and erupted a cloud of dust. I removed my helmet and walked toward the shamble-shack with its frayed canvas awning sloping like a slack jaw. I bowed my head to enter the cover and glanced up at the dimly lit rows of fruit. The shelves the fruit lay on come to about chest high, each level displayed a different fruit. Pineapples with spiky hair lay next to dragon fruit, its green –tipped, purple leaves sprawled outward toward the piles of different sized oranges. I am sure that the oranges are all different varieties but can never be communicated past anything but, “orange.” Mangosteens resembling overgrown blueberries with hard shells nestled with the spiky, green-red hairs of rambutans. I scanned the colors to find our apples.

Through the small opening between the shelves came a boy about seventeen from the shadows behind. Much taller than me he stooped under the canopy and held a thin plastic bag open for me to put my fruit into. I smiled at him and leaned over awkwardly to reach for the apples in their pink Styrofoam netting. Picking a few, I rolled them in my hands to check for firmness and bruising. Happy with the four I found I nodded to him to acknowledge that that was all. “Tao rai, ka. See apple, ka. See-sip baht?” (“How much? Four apples. Forty Baht?”) I asked as I reached for my wallet. He turned behind him to grab a calculator and I saw a small shadow dart behind the stall. “Oh, lek meow.” (“Oh, small cat.” As I don’t know the word for kitten or baby.) He furrowed his brow at me and cocked his head to one side. I pointed to the where the shadow had been, “Lek meow.”

An older boy about my age came from behind the other. He smiled at me and leaned down into the darkness. He returned and held a tiny, little mound of fur in his outstretched hand. Two green eyes peered at me as he shoved the warm body into my already full hands. Struggling to balance the bag of apples and to not drop the tiny body, I lowered one shoulder and slid the bag onto my right arm. A little calico cat purred at me as I scratched under her chin and held her up to the sky in my left hand. She just sat, purring away with her little back legs outstretched from beneath her white belly, toes spread in the cool air. She was the chillest little kitten ever.

I smiled at her as I handed her back to the fruit boys. “For you.” he said with his hands up in refusal.
“For me? No, no.” I answered him trying to push the kitten into his hands.
“For you. Yes!”
“For me?” I studied the creature. She looked so content just slumped in my hand. She looked at me and blinked her green eyes lazily. “Erik, I think we have a cat.” I called to him over my shoulder.
“What?” He said as he walked toward me.

The mother cat appeared from under the rows of striped watermelons and I put the kitten down to her. The kitten crawled on the mother and they playfully batted at each other. They rolled onto their stomachs and nipped at the other’s ear. Erik and I backed away to observe and discussed the situation- were we really going to take her? The kitten saw us and bounded toward where we were standing. She began to rub her head and small body against our legs and crisscrossed around our ankles. She dove into Erik’s hand as he leaned down to her. “Yeah, she’s a keeper.” We agreed.

I held her against my chest as we drove the rest of the way home.

Born to be Wild..ish

2007-01-31T02:19:00.000-05:00

* a quick note before the boss catches me... I know the office is dying to hear*

It's a glorious day when you experience your very first visitors in your new home- especially when your new home is a developing country halfway around the world. My Father (Pops) and Step-Mother (Barb) staggered through the sliding glass doors of the domestic arrivals only an hour or so later than expected. For Thailand, that's pretty good.
Unfortunately, my "Wild Harley Hog motorcycle Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants" parents have had a rough start. They haven't actually slept a good nights sleep since getting on the 17 hour plane due to "those damn airplane seats" and a broken Sleep Apnea machine. The plane, tolerable. The machine, a major pain in the ass and worry for us all (more so for Barb because she can't sleep next to the logger sawing off cords of wood whose saw keeps getting stuck).
To cheer them both up I thought it would be nice to hop on the motorbikes and cruise to the lookout point near our house. They're bikers, right? They can handle my little 100 Honda Wave no prob...Yeah. Aside from popping wheelies, almost dropping Barb on her butt halfway up the mountain and shifting the wrong way, Pops has received what we here in Phuket like to call The Phuket Tattoo, a nice tailpipe burn along the calf. Only the coolest hard core bikers have it, (ahem, yeah).
It's been a rough start with worrying about how to fix the machine in Thailand and figuring out transportation, but today we hit a high point. The machine (Thank you Bangkok-Phuket Hospital) is running. Thank God. The worry and stress is over.
Now we just hop a boat to Koh Phi Phi in the morning and lounge on the beach. The salt water should be good for the leaking wound adorning Pops' leg. And before we know it, that'll be fine too!

Son of a b$%^h

2007-01-19T06:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I just want to fall to my knees on the dingy ground and scream, "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Buddha! Whhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy!"
I want to spit on the ground and curse this country. Kick the flimsy wheel of my rental bike and pull at my hair.

In our neighborhood we have a pleasant little park where Erik and I go running to try to keep off the rice pounds that like to pile up around the ol' tum-tum. We've been coming sporadically for about 4 weeks now. It really gives you a sense of community and belonging. You see the same faces and smile. You start conversations in broken Thai-lish (Thai-English) as you jog past you puff out a hello or sawasdee and continue on. It's quite lovely...until today.

I went running by myself today because Erik works late. I put on my running shoes, the blue bullets, and hopped on my motorbike to run some laps. I glanced at the time displayed on my phone and locked it away in my seat. Today I'll run five laps in 20 mins, I thought.

I started my laps, the iPod blaring shuffled songs in my ear. A man I usually see stops and we exchange small talk: I am good thank you. As I round the last lap, my face matching the red of my shirt, I stagger to my bike to check the time. Oh, one message. I'll check it later. Placing the phone back into the seat of my bike and locking it, I start a cool down lap.

Eventually I return to my bike. I wonder if Erik is home yet? I use my keys to unlock my bike and pull up the seat- nothing. Did I take it with me? Did I put it on a bench? I'm running through situations that could have occurred but I know damn well that they didn't. I'm spinning in circles looking at everyone that has come since I started on my laps. I was the first person here and now about 50 or so people are walking, hacky-sacking with the traditional Thai woven ball, using the fitness park or talking with friends. I'm helpless and alone. Unsure and skeptical. Hurt and humiliated. Is someone watching me and laughing? Are they thinking "stupid farang." Am I an idiot. Did I not lock my bike? No, I absolutely locked my bike. I punched it down. Oh, God not again. Not another phone!

I retrace my steps searching the ground. Walking back to my bike, I ask the motor-taxi driver sitting on a stump in my poor Thai-lish if he saw anyone at my bike. He understands me and tells me no. I wai and thank him, tears welling in my eyes. Am I upset? Damn right. Am I mad? More like a combination of disgraced and pissed off.

He jumps up to follow me, pointing at some men playing hacky. He approaches and asks them. No luck. Soon the whole park is involved. People I usually wave, nod or wai to are now crowded around my bike as I try to hold back tears and explain the situation. They speak to me in Thai with large hand movements. I only catch tibits of information, the few words I know linking together to get the jist of the paragraph they just said to me. Hold it together, save face. Save face, damn it. I can't cry, they would lose respect. You have to save face in Thailand or they won't bother with you. I take deep breaths and nod as I try to catch foreign words in the air as they fly past me.

They tell me to go to the Police Station. "Chun Bpai. Bpai mai?" I ask. ("Go? I should go?"). I do what they tell me because they are trying to help and I don't want them to think I am ungrateful. I go to the Police Station down the road, which is actually only an office. The motorbike taxi man comes with me, assisting in Thai. They can't help. I need to go to the actual station in town. I know that nothing is going to happen. I make a report, it gets filed. That's that. This is Thailand. I know well enough by now that a missing phone is dog shit on their shoes.

So here I am. Telling you all. Venting my frustration. It's not the actual phone, although the financial damage is a major pain in the ass. It's the fact that I got robbed, right in my own cozy little park. Why me? What did I do? My karma should be good. I'm a good person, damn it. It hurts. I feel cheated and utterly disappointed in the whole situation. My phone. I just got that bloody thing! I have to change my number...again. Someone went into my bike and stole my phone. It's a naked and dirty feeling. Ashamed at my trusting. Ashamed that I was dooped again. I feel stupid and angry and all kinds off dark colors and I don't want that.

I know it's just a phone, that not everyone in Thailand stole it. I can't help but do a sideways glance now. It sure opens your eyes to the dirt that lies under the rug.

Broadcasted on Channel 11 Thai News

2006-12-18T07:51:00.000-05:00

(Cont. from previous blog- Mol-lee...Tomorrow...)

I stayed late that night preparing for the next day’s adventure. I sorted flashcards, gathered A-4 paper, found old lessons, and scrambled ideas until my body shuttered with anxious dread. Teaching on stage didn’t bother me as much as not knowing what to expect and not being prepared did…

I arrived at work early. Turning on the water heater for some much needed caffeine, I went to my desk to make sure that I had everything and to go over my lessons one more time. At about 8:15 (good thing I was early…pssh) I watched as Principal Lin, looking more like Princess Fiona from the Disney movie, Shrek, (in Org form) than usual dressed in a blue, sparkly, blazer-shirt and skirt with her hair all done in curls. Oy, dancing around the principal, herded the kids to a small, white min-van.
“Are they really going to stuff awl 26 students in that van?” My co-worker Carol asked aloud as we stood watching from the safety of the shaded door, “And you too?” she turned to me bemused with the whole ordeal.
“Do you think? Will they fit? She said two vans…” I retaliated peering over the brim of my light brown, instant coffee.
“They sure have done it before, awlright. Wouldn’t surprise me.” She said as she turned toward her desk.
“Are you okay?” My co-worker Paul sympathetically oozed as he came in. “You are going to do fine.”
“Yeah,” Carol chimed in, “and just think, we can all have a nice laugh when it’s over with. No problem a’tawl.”
“Wow, good one. Have fun with that.” Kate, the only one my age grimaced to me, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Principal Lin called through the crack in the door. Damn, I thought maybe she would forget me, maybe get too wrapped up and they would all take off. Guess not. I swallowed the last swig of candy-flavored coffee, sighed and plowed out the door into the sunshine.
“Teacha Mol-lee!” the kids cried as I approached the hustle and bustle of loading them on the bus. And Carol was right, there was only one. But where was Em? Em better freakin’ be going…
“Khun Mol-lee” I overheard as Principal Lin talked with Dr. She motioned for me to move into the passenger seat. I was watching as the children stuffed themselves into the van: some standing, some sitting, some crammed into corners on the floor. It was amazing how all the little bodies fit in. Even Oy fit, lop-sided, in the back. As directed I sat shotgun to the good Dr., Grandfather to two of my children, but more importantly Head of The Ministry of Education. As we were getting ready to leave, Cartoon, a smiley little girl in my class, was lifted up and plopped in my lap. The door was shut and she sat giggling, wedged into the front seat with me. Great.

The drive was long and blaring kid shows played on the flip-down DVD player as we whipped into Phuket Town. My stomach churned and my mind raced with what to expect. I replayed the planned lesson in my head and talked with Cartoon as we passed things she recognized. “Flower,” she said pointing her little finger at passing roadside orchids.
“Very good, Cartoon. Flower. Purple flower.” I encouraged.
“Sun.” She said squinting up at the sky and shielding her eyes.
“Yes. Hot sun.” I replied fanning my face as the rest of the children squealed and yelped in the back.

After about twenty minutes of driving back the way I drove in to work that morning, past the center of Phuket Town and through the misplaced rotary, we came upon a road lined with men in black uniforms. The uniforms identified themselves by their tell-tale white gun sashes and badges as being officers, hundreds of them it seemed. Among the police were security guards, several farang (foreigners), some Thai’s obviously working at the event smocked and carrying pots, and some well dressed Thai’s donned in His Majesty The King’s representative yellow polo shirt topped with a classic black blazer. Apparently these were not your ordinary Thai’s.

My nails dug into the handle of the door and white knuckled, my mouth dropped as I tried to access the situation. Holy shit. What is this? Police? Seriously? Maybe it’ll be too busy an event and I will be forgotten, dismissed to a back corner. Oh God, it is here, we’re stopping.

We stopped across the street from a large, rectangular, dark, marble sign draped in rich, blue silk. Only the first six letters peaked out from the secretive fabric: AUSTRI. And I knew then that it hadn’t been Principal Lin’s flawed English that had thrown me off. It actually was the Austria Center, whatever that was. As my mind put the puzzle together another piece jammed itself jagged edged into my mind: she had said “grand opening”. Silk fabric, balloons, police, silk fabric covering the sign, security, tons of security, farang…oh shit.

My door swung open as Dr.-stone faced- suggested with his hands that I step out. I set Cartoon gently on the ground and took a deep breath: Here we go. There was nothing I could do. I’m here, they expect me to go on, and there is obviously something big happening. The best I could do was go through it, give it the old college try, wow the crowd and be done with it. Three hours, okay. Dr. pulled back the side door and before it had glided to a stop my kids were spilling out onto the sidewalk. The Dr. started to lead my kids around the back of the van and into the street, and on-coming traffic, while signaling to the officers. Cars slammed on their breaks as the sound of whistles assaulted the air. With students grasping my hands, fingers, skirt, bag and any other extremity they could, I crossed, or more likely shuffled, across the street and onto the walkway of this white-washed center.

It erupted out of the still raw earth. It’s marble and concrete walls cut away at sharp angles and revealed open-air seating and connected buildings rounded as if they were towers. With no one to follow, my students began wandering aimlessly around. I called to them to gather and wrestled them into a small group by the wall and out of peoples’ way…for the most part. After awkwardly standing with a group of 26 wiggling children for several year-long minutes we were met by Em.
“Mol-lee. We go in here. You teach,” she coyly smiled to me and added in a sing-sing tease, “Ah you ready?”
“Em, what is this? I teach here? Where?” But before she could answer Dr. commanded something in Thai to her and we began to follow him through large glass doors and into a building. It was as sterile as a hospital. The floor was immaculately polished and a white, spiral staircase climbed up the center of the room encased in glass, everything smelled free of dust. We removed our shoes by the door and lined them up toe-to-wall before entering any farther. A desk, much like a hotel reception desk, was along the left hand wall and several grey suited Thai’s nodded and smiled at us as we loudly clamored in. We trudged to a large, pastel padded, lima bean shaped pit with a column up the middle as a seating area to climb into. The second my kids saw it, it was a free for all. You might as well have just released them into the play palace at MacDonald’s for all they cared. All they knew was that here was a padded pit, poles to climb, and ledges to jump off of in a new place. And that was exactly what they did. Screaming, they body slammed one another off the mats while hooting like monkeys in triumph and running off to find another victim. Others were screaming as their friends, pretending to be monsters, growling at their kicking feet. They spilled out of the lima bean and onto the polished floor turning the corner into what must have been, The Library. Crisp white shelves held lined books in rainbow colored order and same size categories with fancy book ends. Freshly bought puppets were displayed on shelves, their store bought smiles still gleaming.

“Bang! Satang! Ton! Over here. We are not in the books. Put the books away!” I ordered the wild wolf-children as I helplessly looked at the zoo that had been unleashed. My Thai teachers were nowhere to be found and here I am with Dr. Ministry of Education, a rambunctious group of six year olds, and random wanderers speculating at my uncontrollable class. With the realization of Oy and Em missing, I became a little overwhelmed but assumed that they would be back any minute. They couldn’t have possibly left me for long…here…where no one speaks English and the kids are in a new spot paying no intention to my Charlie Brown English wafting ineffectively through their ears. With Dr. Standing at the end of the room, I tried to herd my children into the bean pit. If I could at least contain them in one area I would be okay, right? As the howls echoed through the building my children managed to hurtle over or around me and into the books. Several began to climb the honeycomb structure that stretched from ceiling to floor with new books clamped between their rotten stubs of teeth. Others chased each other and jumped X-Game style into the pit. It had felt like ages, the perspiration beading on my back and under my hairline. They were only getting louder and more destructive. I imagined the books being tossed on the floor, red mixing with (gasp) blue books, the stuffing of a chicken puppet spilling from its insides, my children drooling from the honeycomb rafters above onto their victim below.

“Okay, Banmaireab! KG2! Over here!” I clapped to them in my most authoritative tone. Miraculously most of them came over. The others I called by name and got them to join. Now, that I had them all together, what was I going to do? How was I going to contain them? I didn’t want to start teaching. I didn’t have any of my materials. Where were Oy and Em? I searched my surroundings for an idea…oh course, “Yok,” one of my best behaved and smart students, “could you please go and pick out one book to read with the class.” She got up and as others went to follow I clucked at them to sit back down, “Is your name Yok? Yok is picking out the book thank you very much. Please sit and wait.” With the good Dr. looming behind us I tried to look in control of my class.

Yok handed me the spongy book, “Thank you, Yok. Okay. Ooooooh, nice book. Is this a little book or a big book?” I asked knowing that I had to buy time and this four page thin baby book wasn’t about to cash in.
“Little!” a chorus of shouts came.
“Good. What color is the book?”
“Pink!” they replied.
“Good,” I nodded in approval to them, “What is on the book? What is the picture of?” as I continued with random questions people began to trickle in: a couple from outside, some business men from upstairs, a family with a little boy. I could see the Dr. on the ledge of the bean watching me, his face carved in the same stern look. Was I doing well? Is he happy? How can you read this guy? As I thought of these things I realized that my students were being incredibly attentive and articulate. I thought, screw it, I’m going to teach my kids. I’m just going to do my best and do what I know the kids like to do and can do well.

After three books Teelak approached me, “Teacha Mol-lee, bathroom.”
“You have to use the bathroom? Can you wait?” He nodded to me as he clutched the plaid shorts around his groin. Oh, God. How am I going to take them all to the bathroom? Where is the bathroom? Where the hell are Em and Oy?
“Teacha’ Mol-lee,” Noon, a little dark eyed girl in my class came to me, “bathroom, please.” She said, one leg twined around the other. As I looked around the room I noticed most children were clutching their plaid uniforms and squirming with discomfort.
“Do you all have to go?” I asked in disbelief. Their little heads nodded in unison. Ooooooookay, “Let’s go. Boys and girls.” They pushed and shoved their way into a straight line, “Let’s go.” After being denied use of the bathroom on the bottom floor I lead my students up the spiral staircase to the second and had each go in and use the facilities. As we finished up we were joined by Em and Oy who had apparently gone to decorate a board to represent the school.

It was 9:30 and as we came back to the lima bean I was ready to teach. Otherwise, I thought to myself, they are just going to run rampant and embarrass me, the school, and everyone involved. Let’s get this show on the road. With some reprimands and rearranging of seating they finally settled in. Sitting in a tiny, red, plastic chair on top of the four foot wide stage I began my lesson. We went through the usual days of the week and today, the date, and the weather by playing my normal jesting misspelled word game: “What day is it today?”
“Friday.”
Okay, Friday. Very good.” White board marker touches the board and I slowly form the letter ‘M’ until they correct me and chant out the correct days’ spelling. A small crowd was gathering as we continued with our morning routine and then onto the English lesson with phonetics. We reviewed vocab and danced to a phonetics CD that goes along with my curriculum. They love that stuff… “I see a noodle named Nyle/ He likes to nap for a while/he wears a scarf around his neck/he’s neat and right in style.” (Phonetic sound /n/ Letter Nn represented by your pal and mine, Nyle Noodle. Oh, yeah.) People love to see kids dance and be cute, so I was just feeding it to them. The cute part is easy for my lot; the dancing is a little silly though. But that’s what the people want.

I was cranking through. The white board was covered with letters and vocabulary cards and hands were raised to answer questions. I glanced up towards the crowd for the first time and noticed the Principal, Dr., Some black suit jacketed men from the Oborn Jorn, a few well to do smiling farang, and a bunch of onlookers, maybe forty. I knew I had to beef it up. Make the kids impressive. Use what they know to make the crowd ‘ooh and aw’. We went over vocabulary flashcards, “It’s a butterfly. Letter B. Sound /b/.” the children answered. As we ended the review I began to prep for a game as Oy approached me, “Mol-lee. Blake.”
“What?” I asked sorting flashcards in my dewy palms.
“Blake…you know?”
“Blake? What. What do you mean?” I asked half stumbling over my materials as my rhythm had been broken. She looked around for help.
“The student’s. Blake. Eat.” She mimicked eating.
“Oh. Sorry, sorry, yes. Break.” I apologized. The stress and pressure had dulled my usually sensitive ear from Thai mis-sayings and pronunciation. “Of course. Okay. No problem.”
“You come.” She encouraged as I put my things in a pile and followed the line out.

We sat at long tables on hard wooden benches and the students got a little roll filled with shredded pork (I like to call them meat buns), and an orange flavored milk in a bag with straw. As the students sat chowing their meat buns, a commotion began behind them near the silk covered sign. Two hundred or so people were standing around it and as I inched closer out of curiosity I was startled by the thunderous bang of a bass drum. A full marching band in light blue garb piped with red and large white plumes atop stiff white caps began to explosively play to the mingling crowd. The silk was pulled off to reveal the sign and released ribbon flapped back in freedom. Grand opening, indeed.

Some of my students covered their ears while others banged out the song on the table with sticky hands. I stood along the wall behind them smiling proudly and encouraging good behavior. As the band changed tunes, the crowd shifted like the tides and rolled our way. Like a tsunami it rolled towards my kids. The people just kept coming and coming and coming. We were flooded with onlookers. My poor, innocent, unknowing children. Video cameras, ten or so of them, circled my bread-mouthed kids while the head of the Oborn Jorn talked with them while posing for photo-ops, and rich white Austrians pinched their cheeks and tussled their hair. The Principal ordered something in Thai to Oy and the kids were up and lined in no time.

“Mol-lee, you teach. Now!” Oy called to me over the excitement. Let’s rock. I Stood at the head of the line and lead my children inside, weaving around the towering adults. We sat back in the bean pit and tried to continue. It was jam-packed, wall-to-wall people. I could hardly hear myself call to them, let alone expect them to follow directions in English.
“Maybe, you do dance again.” Oy suggested.
“Okay, but there is music on.” I told her as the elevator music whined in my ear by the big screen television I had previously turned off. We’ll try it.
“Oy turned the music on and up as loud as it could go and the students began to move in a sloppy, insecure, slurred dance. This isn’t going to work.
“Oy, forget it. They cannot hear the music.”
“Oh, I doh-no.”
Thinking on my feet, I had them all sit down and split down the middle.
We started playing an impromptu game of flashcard tic-tac-toe where the students one by one had to come up, pick a card, turn it over to reveal the picture, name the object, tell me the letter it began with and the phonetic sound to gain an ‘X’ or an ‘O’. The volume in the room was incredible and people sat on the ledges of the pit to watch and cheer on the children. We sang songs between games: Itsy Bitsy Spider, Twinkle, Twinkle, etc. because I knew the people would eat it up…as they did.

Plucking a flashcard from the white board to redirect my students’ attention, I came face to face with a television camera, the large black circle reflecting a skewed image of myself staring back at me. Surprised by the proximity of the lens, I nervously smiled and tried to remember what I was doing before I was a deer in headlights. News crews snapped shots of my children and people talked to them while I played the game. An older woman with frizzled hair and grey sweater jacket leaned on the ledge of the pit on the stage where I taught and engaged me, mid-lesson, in conversation, “Vear ah you frum?”
“Oh, I am from U.S.A. America.” I answered sweetly. You have to say both U.S.A. and America here because people either know one or the other. If you say America, they may have no idea.
“And da children? How vold?” her dry lips smacked together.
“They are mostly five and six.” I failed to mention the Ministry of Education’s three year old spoiled granddaughter in my class.
“Ah. And how long you stay ear?” she asked, her cheek bones defined ghoulishly by the dark blush.
“I’ve been here for about four months now.”
We continued until she got her fill with information adding, “I am frum Austria.” Yeah, no kidding lady. Are you happy you spent your money on this now that you saw my little kiddos? I continued with my lesson.

The crowd thinned out again and I switched to Mathematics. Hopping down from the wooden stage and onto the now open floor, I put a number line on the ground. Oy and Em taped the numbers, as I reviewed the concept “Count up!” I chanted as I put my right hand into the air, “Count down!” I continued with the opposite arm. My voice echoed through the chamber of the spiral staircase. I could feel movement behind me as I tried to focus on the children lined on the edge of the Easter-egg colored pads. One by one my students came up to demonstrate their mathematical ability while I congratulated them with big, shiny, stickers. This is ridiculous, I thought as my bare feet swept the now warm floor. As we danced on the number line, two dark images hovered to my left.

“Excuse, me. Can I talk with you?” A scrappy, mustachioed man approached me. In his hand he held a microphone as a beautiful Thai woman stood beside him smiling. The camera man rested the heavy instrument on his knee as we chatted. “When did you hear about this opening? We didn’t know you were going to be here.”
I stared at his red shirt- lie. “I heard a lot about it yesterday and more as we got ready to come.” When actually all I wanted to say was that I heard about it yesterday before I was planning on leaving work to go home and actually realized what it was, oh, ten minutes ago. It wasn’t technically a lie. My students rustled in the background. The light from sunlight bounced off the white walls and showered the room in a hot pool of light.
“Have you had a chance to check out the facilities? What do you think?” He asked with his skinny forehead gleaming from the light that fell across from us, his right hand firmly on his hip while the other mopped his brow.

The thought of my children crawling all over the shelves and half-nelsoning each other came to mind. The bathroom trip upstairs came to mind. Walking to snack came to mind. “I’ve become familiar with the library and we read a few of the books. It seems like a wonderful resource and a great facility for the community. It is also architecturally lovely.” I answered. Was this really happening? This was why I was here. Get the kids on camera. Plug the school. We talked a bit more about things I knew nothing about but pretended to have an inkling (which I didn’t). Finally he prepped the beautiful Thai and I was asked the same questions by her, only recorded this time as my children sang the ABC’s (ah, Em and Oy, very smart) in the background. Charmed, the reporter asked me if I could get the students to say ‘I love the new library! Buh-bye’ to the camera as a closer for the segment. But of course, I’d only be fired if I didn’t. After three takes they wrapped up and left the building. The strange room became quiet again.

I turned back to my students, ready to continue with stickers. Em approached me smiling sweetly and holding my arm, “Mol-lee. Finish teaching. Now, we go. Eat lunch.” And it was over like that. I was on camera. The school was mentioned. Mission complete. Lesson over. Who cares if the students learned anything today? Who cares if that set us three days behind in curriculum? Publicity.

We returned to the long tables and wooden benches as they spooned cold rice, chicken, soup, and soy sauce prepared that morning and driven from school into little divided lunch trays for the kids. I watched as they ate and awkwardly smiled at onlookers and hoverers. Thai people came up and asked the children questions, taking their spoons and mixing the food on the plate for them. A hefty farang man, stocky in his walk, approached me. He had a full navy blue suit with collared pinstriped shirt and red tie. He wiped his moist face with a faded white handkerchief as I told him about our school and he told me about business-architecture. He is the boss of the Austrian building group that built the facility, “Thai architecture, we just built it.” He emphasized as he went on about the politics of building in Thailand.

The children finished their lunches and dove into ice-cream pops while we got ready to leave. My stomach rumbled as I stood with my children. I was so exhausted I could fall over. As I stood entertaining my children, trying to keep them behaved, I heard loud gasps, squeals, yelps, and shouts. A woman holding a bunch of thirty or so multi-colored balloons rounded the corner. The rainbow colors glowed in the sunlight and she walked almost slow motion toward the drab and dusty lunchroom. The dirty faces lit up and reached toward the multicolored fantasy with grubby hands. The dry grass blew up a small tuft of weeds as she brought the balloons to me.

“Balloons! Letter B! Sound /b/!” my students cried as the silken white strings were handed over to me. Two white Austrians stood smiling at the side of us: he in dark business suit and parted hair, her, twisting her long-linked gold necklace around her finger that matched her nautical attire suitable for a developing country. He squeezed her around her red striped waist at my students’ delight and they gazed satisfied into each others’ eyes.

Only after you read the TWO parts of the blog
view it yourself @:
http://www.thaisnews.com/news_detail.php?newsid=197996
click on Special report: Austria – Phuket Community Cente opened

Mol-lee, Tomorrow...You Teach...Okay?

2006-12-15T05:50:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at my desk, diligently working away on the next week’s lesson plans when Em, my assistant Thai teacher, slid open the shaded door to the office and peeked inside, “Mol-lee.” I saw her lips form my name as she stepped inside. Removing my earphones, I gave her a smile, “Yes?”
“Mol-lee, you go talk. Principal Lin.” She said as she came to my desk fanning herself with a piece of paper.
“What? Principal Lin? She wants me? Why?” I asked in disbelief, shuffling the papers on my desk and trying to put them in logical order so that I could continue with them without losing my spot.
“Yeeees, Mol-lee. Go talk. Ah, Principal Lin need to speak wit you.” She cooed slouched with her hip on my desk.
“Oooooh,” I toyed with my English co-workers as I pushed myself away from my desk. Their bodies all turned towards me and eyes watched as I followed Em to the door. With my mind racing with lesson plans, I followed her outside as my coworkers chuckled at me through the sliding glass door: math activities, do we continue with phonetic /n/ or should I break it up and add in some verb enforcement? I was going to continue with the concept of more, but is it too fast? What could Principal Lin want? Did I do something wrong?
Shuffling along the stone walkway towards the main office, Em began to try to explain, “Tomorrow you no teach student. Teach other school. Far away," she said with a wave of the hand.
“Far away? What? I don’t teach students tomorrow? No teaching?” I little bubble of joy lifted inside me and erupted as a smirk on my lips as I entertained the thought of a day off.
“Yeeees, Yeeeees, you teach. But not at school, not in classroom. We go….uh,” she thought aloud in Thai as we ascended the stairs and came to the office door, “I doh-no. Principal Lin.” She smiled to me as my face squinted in confusion and we walked through the door.

“Ah, Mol-lee,” Principal Lin called from her desk. Her large body filled the width of the desk and her little chubby arms sat on top like two stubby sausages stuffed into a bright, coral, linen blazer. “Sit, parease.” She instructed with a flop of her arm to a small metal chair in front of her desk.
“Thank you.” I answered still unsure of what exactly was going on and a little hesitant. I looked back at Em for encouragement and she smiled and nodded to me.
“Mol-lee, tomorrow, ah…KG2 (my classroom Kindergarten 2) go to Siria Centah. You know Siria Centah?” she asked, her white powdered face looking at me expectantly.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. Where?” I asked leaning in towards her, hoping that if I get closer, hear better, that I could understand better.
“Uh, you, Em, Oy (my other Thai assistant) Me, Dr. and KG2 all go, go, go,” her hands waved around the air in front of her like two sparring birds flapping wildly about. By this time all I understood was that myself, my two Thai teachers, The Principal, and the Doctor, being the Head of the Ministry of Education (gasp) were all going somewhere tomorrow. But where?
“Okay, we all go…”
She interrupted, “I have two car to, uh,” she moved her clutched hands side to side while swaying her body.
“Driving?” I asked. I have always been darn good at charades.
“Mmmm, yeees. We go to The Centah. You know? Uh, Aus-tri-a Centah. Ah, li-berry. Books, you know? Li-berry? Yes. You go with children and look, look, look, around,” Her head moving about to imaginary books and shelves.
“Okay. So tomorrow Me, Em, Oy KG2 go and look in a center? Like a field trip. We go and just look around?” I asked in disbelief but with a small hope. The Ministry of Education’s Grandchildren are my students; maybe this was a special perk? “I don’t teach tomorrow? We go and look?”
“No. Tomorrow you teach. You teach KG2.” She smiled triumphantly.
Wait a cotton-picking minute- what? “So I teach about the Austria Center? I don’t know Austria Center? What is it? What do I teach?” My breathing became a little unsteady, but as I pictured it in my mind I calmed. What could it be? A field trip, some plaques on the wall in English I read to the children, they get a little history, we learn some Austrian stuff and badda-bing, everyone’s happy…right?
“Mol-lee, you go and teach, I doh-no maybe some picture, maybe…story, maybe…I doh-no. You teach, teachteach, and people watching,”
“People are watching? Who? Watching me teach?” I asked in disbelief. Oh, this was getting good.
“Yeeees,” she smiled, her thick hands clasped in front of her bosom which rested on the top of her desk. “Some people…you know…some children no have mother or father, very poor…”
“Orphans?”
“Yes, okay. They give money to the children no mother, and make li-berry. Grand opening. You, me, Oy, Em go and open. First time.” -Holy shitballs…what?- “Okay, Mol-lee. You teach for me.” She asked with her sweetest smile plastered on in red-hot lipstick.
“Okay, we go to Austria Center. I teach, maybe draw a picture of what we see, and people watch (?) and then we come back to school…when?” I struggled to understand exactly what the heck I was in for.
“We drive back to school 12 o’clock. Okay?”
“A field trip? We are going on a field trip. Come back at 12 0’clock?” I half asked half answered.
“Okay, I think okay. Thank you Mol-lee. You come to school tomorrow morning, what time?” She asked.
“I come here at 8 o’clock.”
“I think tomorrow you come in 7:45. Okay. Thank you Mol-lee.”
“Okay.” I shrugged as I got up and looked at Em. Her face would tell me what was really going on.

As we descended the stairs I turned to Em, “What are we doing?”
“We go to Austria Center and you teach,” her hands straightened horizontally in front of her, “people come watch ‘oh, cute, cute the children’ and you teachteachteach.”
“What do I teach? I don’t know Austria Center?”
“No, Mol-lee, you teach, same same.”
“I teach what I would teach tomorrow? We take workbooks?”
“No, I think maybe game, maybe sing-song, story…”
“Wait, Em, people are going to be watching me teach, what? On a stage?”
“Yeeees. Many people come and watch, looking around and watching teach.”
Oh, God. I finally got it. I understood. How could I be so stupid? It isn’t a field trip, it’s a publicity thing. I have to cart my kids into a building and try to teach them while rich Farang and god-knows-who circle us like cute-thirsty vultures going in for the cheek pinch. Oh, no. And three hours? Three hours of it? How am I going to teach three hours with people cruising around us? What the hell am I going to teach? Think Molly, think.

I slid back the door to the English office and my co-workers all turned my way. Their eyes widened as I stood, shocked in the doorway, “Oh, no Molly. What does she want you to do?”

Ground Control

2006-11-24T04:15:00.000-05:00

What was that loud cracking sound? Why was I on the ground? My leg hurts. I'm on the ground. I'm on...the...ground? Cars. Get up. cars. Erik, where's Erik? Yellow light. Get up. My head, helmet. The bike is by my feet. I'm on the ground. Where's Erik? Get up. My hands, where are my hands? The ground? get up.

I scrambled to my feet, the wet pavement making impressions on the palms of my hands like scales. I looked around. Cars, bikes, we're going to get hit. Erik. Erik is talking to...other people? People...on the ground? That's when it hit me, we had been in an accident.

It was a good dinner to unwind from the first day of work. We both experienced stressful situations and unplanned occurances seemed to have crept into both of our days. We had waited out the rain by means of a hot fudge sundae and a hot cocoa, the same kind my Aunt Kay used to make. Just sipping it had brought me back to cast iron gas stoves with the smell of the gas wafting with real chocolate warming up on the burner. The rain had calmed and I held close to Erik, the warmth of his body warding off the goose bumps that seemed destined to take over. We cruised through town talking of lesson plans we still had to make. As we approached the road to our house, Erik insisted I wave to the woman on the corner at her food stand. He had eaten there the other day and had made friends with the owner/cook and the patrons. As I turned to wave we came to the branch of our road.
“Did she see you?” Erik asked as he stopped at the T to our road placing his feet firmly on the ground. The blinker shone a bright yellow, illuminating the wall to our right and reflecting off the damp leaves of the trees and bushes.
“No, but a lady sitting there did. She waved to me. She looked really nice and excited to see us.” I told him as I looked down our road.
We waited for the oncoming traffic to pass, and then started to make our turn. The next thing I knew I was on the ground, my helmet had just slammed onto the pavement and my neck jerked with the shock. Yellow blinking lights shone off the wet pavement and the neon green bike was lying at my knees. I jumped up to get out of the road as I saw Erik go towards the others. Who were they? How many were there? What the hell just happened? The bike lay on the ground, its front wheel touching the side of another. My eye was immediately drawn to a small child, was he hurt? Then I saw a woman and a young man, maybe a teenager. Wait, the woman is holding her stomach, God, she’s pregnant. My knee started to sting and I quickly checked as I heard Erik ask them if they were okay. A truck that was behind us stopped and blocked the traffic. It seemed like there were lots of people stopped. All 3 of the others weren’t wearing helmets. God, had my head hit?
“Molly, move the bike.” Erik instructed. Dazed, I lifted the bike up and moved it to the side, the blinker still going.
“You okay? Okay?” Erik asked the couple standing at their bike. The little boy was in the road so I told him to come over and I checked him, “Are you okay?” I asked giving him the thumbs up. Scanning him, there was no blood.
“What happened?” The lady from behind us in the truck asked.
“We were here,” Erik said stepping into the road, “I was stopped and my blinker was on. We were turning. We live right there.” He gestured down the road.
“Okay. Okay. I saw. He come on side?” she asked.
“No, on this side. I turn,” he made the action of steering the bike, “and he hit me. Here. Like this.” He made a T bone collision with his hands. “Are you okay?” He asked the people again as they stood huddled together.
The lady spoke to them in Thai and they nodded, moving towards their bike.
I sighed as they took off. If she hadn’t been there to communicate, god knows. What would happen? Thai police? It wasn’t our fault. My knee stung and my hand throbbed as I climbed back on the bike. We wheeled toward our house, the neighbors out in an ogling pack.
“You okay?” They asked.
“We’re okay.” We answered, “Shaken.” One of the neighbors walked to us, checking my hands and asking if we were okay and what happened. We looked over the bike and made our way inside, recapping what had happened. Gosh, good thing we were wearing a helmet. Helmet 2 points. Blinker none. I just wanted to get inside.

Update to: What a day...

2006-11-24T03:25:00.000-05:00

Like wearing a cloak woven with threads of worry, doubt, despair, sadness, grief, and misery we felt heavy as she told us the news, "He, she, uh, is dead." Our bodies, crushed by the news, made for weak legs and lead hearts.
She saw us from up the street as we mounted the motorbike on our way out. Dressed in her police woman uniform, obviously an officer of caliber with her many decorations gracing her chest and shoulders, she walked towards us.
We both had a sinking feeling all week. Driving past the house each day, we looked. For the first few days, we looked and saw emptiness. But as the week continued, we noticed that there were several cars at the house. That's what worried us.
As she approached I removed by helmet, walking towards her, "how is everything?"
She told us the sad news, her eyebrows furrowed.
"I think it okay you come. Saturday, uh...you come. I think okay. Twelve, twelve o' clock, ka. she, uh he, dead." Her hands palm up to the sky.
"We are so sorry. Are you okay?" we asked her, my hand to my heart.
"Thank you." she said as she held my face in her hands kissing me on the cheek.
As she walked away, the weight grew and we fell into an introspective silence.
It was like hitting a wall.
"We did everything we could." Erik said as we took off.
"I hope so. I just think, should I have done something different?" I ask into the darkening sky pregnant with storm.
"I don't know, Molly. I don't know."

What a Day...and Evening.

2006-11-21T09:00:00.000-05:00

“Oh, uh… my huhband…” she stuttered in a panicked search for English words.
I rose from my chair to see what was happening. Erik was already at the screen door, smiling at first, but now his face twisted in confusion and worry. He opened the door, stepping outside and onto the warm veranda as she scurried toward the gate of our house.
“…My huhband. Uh, he fall. Help. You help me. Oh…” She spoke in a rushed urgency. It took a second to sink in.
“Your husband?” Erik asked.
“Is he hurt? You need help?” I added.
“You help me, please. Help.” She tugged at us with begging eyes. Her face, in a panicked desperation, was framed by her hair still pulled into a loose chiffon from work.
“Okay, okay. We’re coming.” Erik said as he followed her across and up the street to her house.
“Come on!” He shouted over his shoulder as I stood, shocked, for a millisecond. Dazed and trying to grasp what exactly was happening, I froze momentarily in thought. Shook by his call, I dashed into the house and grabbed my phone. Running barefoot up the road, my teacher skirt flipping in the wake of my dread, I reached the house. The woman was frantically opening up the backdoor of her car and pulling things out. She was wild with flustered immediacy. Erik stepped in to help and she grabbed my wrist, “You come. You help me. My huhband. Help.” I had no idea what I was stepping my bare feet into. We flew through the doors of the house in a surreal out-of-body experience and stopped as we entered the kitchen, heavy with earthy smells. I paused when I saw her husband lying on the floor. His body was sprawled, belly up, behind the pale blue kitchen table. With only a white cotton undershirt on, his lower half was exposed-- blue shorts tangled around his ankles. She quickly threw a dish rag onto his exposed genitals as she reached for me to come closer. Time froze. The sound of my breath echoing in my ear as I looked for his chest to rise in time. I automatically began to assess the situation, scanning the area for any piece of furniture or evidence that could whisper what had happened into my ear. My God, he was foaming at the mouth. His body, slightly shaking, had lost control and bodily fluids surrounded him as he gyrated uncontrollably. His shirt was soaked in urine, sweat and saliva. Feces trailed down his leg. I focused on the foam frothing in a yellow discharge from his mouth. It had air bubbles; he was breathing.

Erik came back into the room and just as time had stopped, it begun to speed up; everything moving like lightning flashes. I stood there clutching my phone as the wife huddled over the body. What was the number for 911 here? God damn it.
“You lift my huhband. Please.” She beseeched, her mind racing with fear.
“Okay, okay. We can lift.” I said as I approached the body of her husband. I came around the edge of the table to the crown of his head as Erik went to his midsection.
“Molly, get his head.”
“Alright, I got it.” I answered as Erik heaved the man’s fluid soaked body up and into his arms. My hands slipped on his slime covered forearms and I cradled his soggy head in my hands trying to stabilize his neck. The wife whimpered as she followed us out the house with the occasional “Okay, okay.” As she tried to gather herself.
“Step.” I instructed Erik as we came out of the house and into the car-park, the man’s head still in my hands with my arm bracing his shoulders. Erik breathed heavily as he carried the brunt of the limp body. We reached the backseat door of the car and in a split second decision I climb backward into the seat, his shoulders and head resting on my chest and upper arms. The leather gripped my moist skin and I tore across the seat, forcing my skin to move with me as I pulled his body in with mine. Erik pushed him up and into the car, placing him delicately across the seat. As I reached the other door, my sense of smell kicked in and the car became a pungent tomb. I popped open the other backseat just as the wife came with a pillow. I jumped out and she quickly substituted it under his head as I walked around to Erik.
“You, come with me. Please. You come.” She called hurrying into the house, her cell phone to her ear.
“She wants us to go with her.” I looked at Erik in awe and disbelief at what was happening. Should we?
“Go with her? To the hospital?” He asked as he tried to pull the man’s shorts up a little higher to save his dignity.
“I don’t know. I guess.” I climbed into the passenger seat to assist. The woman was still milling around her house in a panic looking for things and grabbing last minute needs. Like an unexpecting husband at the moment of labor, she rushed with lost cause.
“Here, just close the door.” Realizing that it wasn’t going to work I picked his legs up and held them into the car, “shut the door.”
“You got him?”
“Yeah, go.”
He shut the door and the wife came out. “Okay, okay. You come you come with me.” She said to us as she circled the car hemming and hawing, her hand to her forehead in despair.
“Umm. Okay.” I said as a million things raced through my mind, “Call ambulance?” I asked thinking that it would be better if she didn’t drive in this state of mind.
God, shouldn’t we call the ambulance? What the fuck’s the number? What the fuck’s the number. Oh, God, why don’t we have the number? Go with her? Is it safe? Should I go? Should I follow? No, someone should be with her. But what if she can’t drive right now? Wear my seatbelt. She needs someone. Should I go? Just go. I need to go with her.
“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital? I asked as she threw a pile of towels over her shoulder onto his exposed body.
“Nono. With me. I am a police woman in Pang nga. No problem. I am a police, please. You come wit me.” She floundered as she dug through her purse, “Where are my keys? Oy, my keys. Where are? Where are?” She yelped as she hustled back into the house to find her keys.
Erik pulled up on the motorbike, “Why don’t you call 9-1-1?” he asked.
“Because I don’t know the number!” I howled back at him.
“We’ll follow her?”
“Okayokayokayokay you comewithme.” She said as she pulled my arm with a nervous chuckle.
“No, she wants us to go with her.” I called to Erik in the road.
“With her?”
“With you? In the car?” I double checked.
“okayokayokayokay.mmmmm.” She answered.
Okay.” I said to her. “She wants me to go with her.”
As she locked the front door to her house I said, “I borrow your shoes.” And I slipped on a pair of red wedges.
Climbing into the car, unsure and scared but with Erik behind me, I was worried. God, was I worried.
“You come. Yeah. He okay?” She equally half asked to me and to herself.
I fastened my belt and turned to her husband. His belly rounded up to his chest and the foam at his mouth was gathering in a pool by his neck. His legs quivered and his right arm slightly shook. It was the first time I thought: seizure. My God, he’s having a seizure. I took one of the thrown rags and began to wipe his mouth so that the foam wouldn’t block his breathing. This was probably the last place I wanted to be, but she needed someone.
“He okay? He okay?” she cried, fumbling at the gear shifts.
“He’s okay. He’s okay. Breathing. Good.” I soothed as I watched his quaking body and gently wiped the spittle that oozed from his white crusted lips.
“I am police woman in Pang nga. I gone for one week. He, oh. Don’t know, don’t know. He okay?” “He’s okay.” I repeated as I watched his convulsions. Please, stay with me buddy, I pleaded to myself as I glanced out the rearview window at Erik pacing behind us. She turned down winding roads, passing cars as I attended to her husband wedged between the two front seats and rotated behind.
“Your husband okay behind?” She asked of Erik.
“Yes, he’s there. Don’t worry. It’s okay.”
Traffic jammed up at intersections as it was a busy time of day. Cars in Thailand usually find themselves bumper to bumper while motorbikes weave between the lanes. Erik scooted ahead yelling, “Hospital!” as we tried to maneuver through oncoming traffic.
He miraculously stopped all cars at some points and we cut through, only to find another clogged up motorway. My attention focused on the husband. He began to choke and chortle and without thinking, I unbuckled my belt and whipped around to adjust his head. I turned it to the side, draining out the pooled up saliva and lifting his head back on the pillow, but I quickly removed it as his tongue slipped back. Re-clearing his airway I propped his head with chin up and removed all the built up guck. Oh, god. Stay with us. You’re okay. You’re okay. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I coached as we wheeled through intersections. Trapped at a light, I could see the sweat roll down the wife as she began to get panicked and restless hitting the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.
“He’s okay. Okay.” I told her as my face screamed otherwise out the window to Erik. I stared at him, tears coming to my eyes. The husband was slipping, he began to quake more violently, and I didn’t know how much longer he would make it. Please get us there. Get us there. Be there. Be there. Erik whizzed ahead and got the attention of a traffic patrolman and the officer stopped traffic to let us through. We were close. If he could just hold on a little bit longer…
We were within spitting distance of Wichira Hospital when traffic became impassable. Erik tried to clear the way, but traffic had no idea of the severity of the situation. The wife panicked and took a turn.
“Wichira Hospital?! Right there!” I demanded.
“No, Mission, better. Thai Hopital.” She cried the sweat beading on her neck. I put my hand on her shoulder as I leaned over to the back seat, my other hand holding her husband’s mouth open and the tongue down. God, don’t be far, I begged.
We finally made it to the hospital after watching the red traffic light count down until it turned green, every second an eternity. When we reached the front door of the hospital, the EMTs came out and put him on a stretcher and whisked him inside. “You stay wit me?” She whined.
“Yes. Of course. We stay.” I told her, “no problem.”
“Thank you, thank you.” She called as she stumbled into the hospital to find her husband. “You stay.”
Erik met me inside in the waiting room. Sullen faces looked at the two farang that had entered with the hysterical Thai woman, both smelling like feces. Erik went to the washroom to clean his shorts while I sat in a blue, plastic, bowl chair watching the wife’s purse as she talked with doctors.
“My huhband. He go to Wichira Hopital. Seri-os conditon. I am police woman in Pang nga. Not home for one week. My huhband, oh.” She got up to check again.
She called her family from her cell phone and told us that they were going to meet her at the next hospital. The doctors and nurses got ready to transport the husband and I watched as they placed him onto the stretcher. All three of us walked to the ambulance and she stood confused and not knowing what to do.
“You go. I’ll drive your car to Wichira Hospital.” I told her. Hesitant at first, she gratefully went with her husband, “oh, thank you thank you.”
I pass Erik climbing on his bike as I stride to the car. It smells incredible and I try to put the windows down but only the back two obey. As I climb in I have to push the seat back to adjust to my legs and grip the shifter in my left hand- left hand- no problem. I pop the car into 1st as the ambulance whizzes past me and follow it into the street. Trying to find the blinkers, the windshield wipers swish on as I switch to the left lane. Erik whizzes past me and yells to turn on the blinkers. I would if I could find them. I quickly glance around and finally push on the hazards and turn off the wipers following the ambulance and honking my horn. Realizing that I don’t have to rush, I slow down and go carefully. Entering Wichira, Erik calls to me to park in a spot he had just seen someone pull out of. I reverse into it in one fluid motion. We enter the hospital and find ourselves surrounded by signage that is all in Thai with no idea where they could have gone.
We ask the front desk,” Do you know where the people on stretcher,” they stare blankly at us, “ambulance from Mission Hospital, just came in…” they continue to stare. “Uh, woman, man sick. Hospital came in here.” We mimic to them and they have no idea. “Okay, thank you. We tell them as we decide to venture on our own. We end up passing by a door just as the wife turns down the hall and she waves to us. Giving her back her keys, we ask about his condition.
“Can you stay wit huhband? I have to…uh, um…” she gestures signing and we tell her yes of course. A little while later he is wheeled out of Tomography and brought down to Emergency. We follow the four, white uniformed staff and stretcher and meet her on the way. She clutches my hand, “Now, you good friend. Good friend. Thank you.”
“No, problem, ka.” I tell her quietly, “You okay?” I ask
“Ka. Okay.” She answers while squeezing my fingers as we walk behind her husband’s stretcher. He is wheeled into a private room in the Emergency area and she tells me to sit. I do, as does Erik, and we wait. Her husband is on oxygen which a nurse is hand pumping into him as another holds an I.V. high into the air. We sit as she talks to the doctors and two people walk in and greet her. It is her brother and sister in law whom she called earlier. They have come to meet her. We introduce ourselves and they thank us. Now that they are there she is okay and we are thanked and told we can go. We leave with warm wishes, “Now, you good friend. I come to your house to visit you. I will come and tell you.” She tells us as she walks us to the doorway of the hospital.
“No problem. We hope he is okay. Good bye, ka.” We wai as we make our way to the motorbike. Climbing aboard, I look toward where we had departed. They wave as they turn to walk inside and we breathe a surprised sigh of relief with a tinge of worry as we wheel back toward home.

Girl, You Need To Find a J. O. B.

2006-11-14T07:10:00.000-05:00

Enter an amplified state of exhaustion and pile on another coconut shell spoonful of stress... That's right folks, it's job-hunting time. So right now I'm currently at Molly-0 Schools-7. Who would have thought getting a job teaching English would be so darn hard? Well, anyone who had already tried I suppose.
I currently graduated from TEFL International in Oct. Where I gained my TESOL (teaching English to Students of Other Languages) certification and have since made Phuket, Thailand my home. This cozy little island off the West coast side of the Malay penninsula has everything one would want: beach, sun, city atmosphere, night-life, culture, shopping. You name it, it's probably here... Except a job at the moment, and that's where you find me.
It took a lot longer than anticipated to get a CV (or resume' to those in North America) ready and rearing to go. It seemed like every time I thought I had it ready, I would find something else either missing or incorrect. But eventually, I had a nice grouping of seven packets.
I woke up bright and early, but not bushy tailed as the stress of finding a job has left me restless. I rose to the meep meep, meep meep of my little silver-framed alarm clock. It was time to go hunting. I rolled out of bed and groped my cool linoleum floor for my glasses. Clumsily, I put them on as I stagger stepped into the sunlit corridor; its yellow walls intensifying the glow.
By 9 o'clock I was out the door. Just as I had planned. I had my trusty bag filled with CVs and examples of lesson plans I had already done during my training. After some encouraging words from my partner, and reassurance that I looked the part of teacher, I hopped on my silver and black Honda Wave 125 motorbike. Latching my helmet I waved goodbye as I tried to master the art of driving a motorbike with a skirt on. Knees tucked together in a point, I turned the corner and was officially on my way.
First stop, the international school. I had scoped it the night before and was sure of where to go. As I pulled off the pseudo Thai highway of criss-crossing vehicles and obscene honking of horns I took a deep breath and prepared myself. School number one, knock em' dead. I parked my bike and shot a quick glance in the side-view mirror. It was only 9:30 a.m. but the sun gets hot quickly here and I was already sweating around my hairline. A quick fluff and a smoothing of the skirt found me inside the doors of the school. Luckily, the office was right inside the entrance so I popped in, smile plastered on.
"May I help you?" the Thai secretary asked as she and three others attended to a large bulletin sign.
"Yes, I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers?"
"Um, right now we are fully staffed."
"Oh, okay," I pondered back, a little disappointed. "Could I leave my CV with you in case you have an opening?" The secretary gave an audible groan as she tried to fit my words into a sentence that made sense to her. With a smile she motioned to someone behind me.
"Hello. Yes, we are full at the moment," a teacher using the copier answered the confused Thai's response.
"Alright, well could I leave my resume with you?" I asked cheerily. Great! Someone who could speak English well. This was looking up.
"You should talk to George." She said as she peeked her head around the office door and spied into the hallway. "George, do you have five minutes for this lovely lady?" She asked him aloud. George, however, made no sign of acknowledgement and left me there smiling like a doofus waiting for a response that wasn't to come. "Just go talk to him. Why don't you go? Go on." She encouraged with her spiky hair and metallic eyeliner defining her large eyes. So I did.
I approached him and took the que to sit as he waved his hand toward the table. I anxiously pulled out one of my very best copies of my CV. He looked it over while rubbing his temples. At times during our small talk he would look to the side as if in deep thought. A large man, probably in his fifties, George was obviously the principal of the school. His glasses strung around his neck and higher than thou air about him festering the hallway in which we sat. Was he wondering if I was the right person? Should I have answered something differently? I left with the possibility of a part-time job and and opening of a position next year. Basically, nada. He had my CV. He would call. Uh, huh.
Not letting myself get discouraged I stuck my helmet on and cruised down the dirt road and back out into traffic. Rolling the accelerator back I whipped into the stream of traffic. With a quick toe-tap shift I was into fourth gear and cruising at a steady 80 Kilometers an hour. I finally reached the U-turn opening and took the chance with a slight break in traffic. This was precious time today! I had to land a job. With an inner debate of where to go next, I decided that I should once again improve my CV. Luckily, I was near my TEFL school and since I paid them good money to go there I figured I could go do a quick touch up on their dime.
With new copies of my resume and fixed copies of my diploma, my deflated ego once again returned to normal. The next school on my list was one that my land lady had told me about. I cruised across town and into the neighborhood of where it should have been. Behind dusty industrial trucks and swerving vendor motorbikes, I finally made my way onto the correct street. With my head craned reading passing signs, I found myself at the end of a road leading to the Phuket Solid Waste Disposal Department. Um, not the school. I remembered her mentioning a blue sign and as I turned my bike around into oncoming traffic, I saw it. Well, it was blue but written all in Thai. Here goes nothing. What do I have to loose? Worst case, I find the back entrance to the Solid Waste Department.
As I roared down the street, my head angled to read all the signs, I felt myself take flight. Only after landing the jump off the speed bump did I notice a guard at a gate with yet another blue sign. She had said a blue sign. The guard smirked as I pulled up all knobbly-kneed, my toes pointing to the ground holding my bike straight as I tried to inquire if this was the appropriate building. "Is this a school?" I asked him. He answered by scratching his head. Okay, right. That tells me that he doesn't speak English. Let's try this, "English? School? Office?" He muttered something incomprehensible and I smiled, "Thank you." And carried on my way. If it wasn't the school, I'd turn around. If it was, score. As I approached the first building I saw kids in their tell-tale blue uniforms. Nice one, Molly. Now, Where the heck do I go?
I parked my bike to the side and climbed off. Placing my silver, baseball-hitter's helmet into the front basket (where the Thais usually have their dogs), I gave another quick glance in the mirror and a flap of my shirt to dry the beaded sweat down my back. Here goes school number two. I scanned the building and decided that the second floor may hold some answers as the sign above read: Multi-Language Center. I found myself looking into classrooms and admiring some wonderful craft-work from the students until I reached a doorway with the sign, Foreign Language Resource Library. Hmmm. Potential. Children rushed by me on the stairs as I debated if I should go in. The tinted window only gave hints at what was inside and the shoes lining along the wall were all adults, not like the other rooms with the brown and black school issued canvas runners. A lady came out and I took a deep breath, "Excuse me. Do you know where Lamp is?" (Lamp was the contact name my land lady had given me.) She pointed inside the room. "There?" She nodded and I thanked her as I kicked off my shoes and placed them alongside the others.
Fixing my hair one last time, I pushed open the large door and was hit by the wonderful air-con. I entered a large room where several people sat at wooden desks and shelving filled one side. I had no idea what my contact looked like or where she'd be. I just knew her name. Two people were arguing in front of me and I stood there awkwardly by the door waiting to be helped, but not wanting to interrupt. When my presence could no longer be ignored, the woman turned to me, "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for Lamp?" I answered in a very sweet, I'm-very-sorry-for-interrupting way.
"I am her." The short Thai woman answered quizzically. She must have been wondering how the heck I knew her name and why.
"Nee is my land lady and she gave me your name. I am an English teacher. I was wondering if you were hiring any English teachers at the moment." All eyes in the room wee on me. I'll tell you the pressure sure mounts when everyonein the room is evaluating you and not just one person.
"Oh, okay," she smiled, "sit. I'll be right with you." Great. Here I am. This has to be good. I half asked and answered questions in my head, half listened to their heated debate if whether the teacher's test was too difficult for the students as I waited nervously on the brown, leather couch. After their discussion was over she came to me and looked over my CV. By this time I was ready to land this job. I wanted this job. I talked about my experiences in Burlington teaching younger children while also describing my time with older students at the Young Vermont Writers' Conference and TEFL. I shot out examples of teaching, she asked about my hobbies. I introduced my diplomas and certifications, she gave me an application to fill out. She told me about the possibility of a position and would I be willing or able to teach different subjects such as Science. Of course I would. I gave her examples of my lesson plans, and she photocopied them. I even saw one of my former classmates who was now employed there and she gave a good word for me. I left feeling good about the job, but uncertain. I'm still clutching my phone waiting for a call.
It was almost lunch time and I was determined to squeeze in another before I met my partner for lunch. As I was chugging along towards a school I had in mind I glanced to my right to double check that the lane was clear and spotted another school. Ah, hell. I thought to myself. Why not. It's close and I probably won't make it to the other before lunch. How awkward would that be?
With a break in traffic I turned my bike around and entered the gate of the school. Parking my bike on the side and taking another deep breath, I gathered up my bag and put on a smile as I walked towards God-knows-where the office was. I approached an old man in what seemed like an office, " Excuse me, are you hiring an English teacher?" He and another woman to his right exchanged confused glances at each other. Okay, let's try again, " I am an English Teacher. Do you need one?" Nothing. "I have a CV. Would you like it?" My temperature was rising with half embarrassment and the creeping feeling of awkwardness. They looked at each other and spoke in Thai. I stood, once again, like a doofus, smiling. They lead me across the green behind the building. I walked feeling like an outsider (Christ, could I be more of an outsider?) past open windows where lectured students giggled and pointed at me. I was like an Ostrich in a city in New England- quite an odd site.
I was lead to a cafeteria like structure where six teachers sat eating. Oh, God. Exactly what I didn't want to happen. An angry looking Principal shot piercing eyes at me as I was introduced-I think I was introduced- to him. I tried again, "Hello, are you hiring an English teacher?" I asked. All eyes were on me and whispers from the chowing Thais hunkered at the table burned my already red ears.
"English teacher? Yes." He answered as sternly and bitter as humanly possible. He motioned for me to sit at one of the long tables.
"Here is my CV. I was wondering if you needed an English teacher." I said as I handed it to him.
"Ah," he moaned as he placed his specs on his eyes.
"I recently graduated from TEFL." I added, trying to communicate something.
"We have teacher. Come two days one week. N.A. You know? N.A.?"
"No, Sorry. I don't," I confessed.
"In Patong. How long you in Phuket?"
"Almost three months." He got up, throwing my CV onto the table as a line of tee-heeing children donned in green shirts marched in. The made eyes at me. Some hid behind their friends. I smiled back at them while begging to be struck dead by lightning in my head. He returned and told me to follow a different teacher to get an address. I thanked him for his time and followed the man through the line of children. We came to a door where a loud speaker was blaring out instructions in Thai. I waited while he went inside to retrieve the address of N.A. (whatever that was) for me. The first man I had approached came up to me and asked me if I spoke Thai. I told him no, only a little and he laughed. Then he pondered something for a minute into the air and turned to me, "This school...No good. No money."
Wow, okay. "Thank you. Um," What do you say to that? I took it as my cue to leave as I could see the other man hiding inside the room waiting for me to go. As I was saying goodbye to him, two boys approached and he told them to say hi to the Farang. "Hello, Teacha'" one said. The other, the more daring of the two cleared his voice, "Good afternoon," and stuck out his hand to be shook. I shook and replied, "Good, afternoon. Nice to meet you too. Goodbye."
I walked away wishing that I could disappear. Where was that magic fairy dust? I just wanted to shrivel into my shoes and walk unnoticed. As I approached my bike the two boys came running up to me. "For you Teacha," the daring boy told me as he held out a cup of soggy, cold fries drizzled in ketchup towards me. "For me?"
He smiled. "Thank you." I said as I walked to my bike and they giggled off to a bench. I placed them, in the basket under my book bag as I mounted my bike to drive off. He ran back up to me, extending his hand. I shook my head and said, "No, High five!" and slapped him five as I gunned my bike and tore-ass out of there thinking, hey, at least the kids like me.
To be continued...Still to come: The rest of the day. ergh.

Vegetarians Gone Wild

2006-11-02T23:53:00.000-05:00

Dedicated to Joshua- 'The Violent Veg'

If I had to imagine what it would be like to be at the scene of a bombing, I now know what I would draw up:

It was a beautiful early morning. I woke up to the sounds of distant drummings and loud explosions. Wearily, I got dressed and exited the safety of the guest house. The street was lined with white and yellow shirts that glowed in the hot sun. A table sat in the entrance covered with a red silk cloth. On top were several kinds of fruit (pineapples and oranges primarily), candles, incense, and little cups of tea. As I peered down the street, my hand blocking the brightness of the sun, I came to count about ten other tables along the street all bearing the same gifts. These gifts were offerings to the possessed participants of the parade. If the owner of the table was lucky, one of these people would stop and bless them, maybe even drink their tea or give them a blessed pineapple.

I tried to find some shade to watch the parade as the sweat rolled down the crease of my back. I had heard about the Vegetarian Festival, been hearing about it since I arrived in Phuket Town. I even experience a little of it yesterday upon arrival with it's yellow flags waving in the slight breeze and the streets lined with booths selling all kinds of fried vegetarian treats. Spring rolls, coconut pancakes, fried fritters, noodles, and dough balls perfumed the air with the sweet smells of a fair. One only had to follow their nose to find the celebration.

The Chinese believe that on the ninth lunar month, if you abstain from all substances (meat, sex, alcohol, drugs), that it will bring you prosperity and good luck in the coming year. This celebration also embraces the nine Chinese Gods. Participants allow their bodies to become vessels and at any point can become, in a way, possessed. There are all kinds of rights performed at the temples including: firewalking, blade ladder climbing, dragon dancing, self-mutilation and more. The participants are protected by the gods from any scaring and bleeding from the mutilation and in the end, walk away not harmed.

With my back against the concrete wall of a cafe', I watched the beginning of the parade. People marched by with banners lined with switches from saplings, possessed beings walked along the parade path adorned in silk robes and multi-colored tunics, their heads shaking from side to side and their body all a quiver with a posse of five or six following close by. After watching this for quite some time and meeting back up with Erik, we decided to walk against the current to see what else was happening in the parade and along the streets leading to the five different Chinese Temples.

And that is when it happened. We took a left turn up the road and walked along the crowded sidewalk until we came to an open motorbike shop. The shop was similar to a two door garage, its motorbikes shoved far into the corners. This allowed for some standing room so Erik and I paused to survey the scene. All of a sudden a commotion broke out, and people were yelling and dashing into corners, hiding behind poles, other people, telephone booths... it all happened in a matter of seconds. My body was in slow motion. My brain was processing what was happening while my body slowly shifted to the right, rotating on my right foot and moving toward a corner of the shop. It's a bomb. What's happening? Why is everyone taking cover?I slid into the space, my head still facing the direction of the chaos, still trying to figure out what was happening. As I reached my spot I heard the explosions, my eyes locked with Erik's as he stooped along the perimeter, a grin across his face.

My ears were ringing with the constant explosions, and Erik's grin told me that it was okay. I fumbled with my camera, debating on whether to cover my ears or to take a picture. The crowd was dispersed and revealed a group of men, their shirts wrapped around their heads carrying a small box with an object inside on a kind of throne. It's four poles held by four men each cradling the figure of a god on top. Long bamboo poles entwined with strings of fireworks were being lit and held over the figure. Some dropped large clusters of fireworks onto the figure itself while the men bobbed up and down in a kind of dance. The eight o'clock sky darkened with the smoke making it hard to breath. I held my shirt over my mouth mimicking others. With the holes in the crowd, pieces of shrapnel came flying towards me. I was being hit by tiny specks of exploded fireworks. Luckily I still had my sunglasses on, protecting my eyes from the debris that struck my face. I was torn between saving my hearing and taking photos. As I was trying to do both, my ear pressed against my shoulder and the camera rotating in my hands, a Thai came and shoved a piece of cotton in my hand. Ah-ha, earplugs! I ripped it in half and half again, shoving the cotton into my ears. Now, hands free, I ran to Erik as he bobbed and weaved in and out of the smoky explosions. Offering him the other half of the cotton, he took my camera to get closer shots.

I stood back, coughing through the smoke with watering and stinging eyes. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Hundreds of fireworks were being draped upon this figure and, in turn, on these men. People in the crowd were throwing their own fireworks at the image; the explosions creating tiny sparks of light in the greyish blue cloud. You could barely make out the throne and its carriers. Only their yellow or white covered heads would poke from the smoke now and again. The noise pierced my ears. The explosions burnt my shirt and onlookers dove into corners. I was transfixed to another place: I was in Cairo, I was in the New York subway, I was on a London bus, I was in Iraq. I was panicked and brave all at the same time. I wanted to run and to watch, to hide and to participate.

The explosions and bamboo poles continued through nine other gods and a procession of incantated beings, musical accompaniment, and marchers. My lungs and throat ached with the grey smoke that swirled in my respiratory system. We walked away, ducking through explosions back around the corner until we found shelter away from the storm that was the Vegetarian Festival.

Never Trust a Bus Driver- Part Two

2006-10-30T09:48:00.001-05:00

Bitterly, we boarded the second bus a few hours later. Erik and I settled in to the seats directly behind the driver, our valuables nestled close to us, determined not to let ourselves be duped again. We slept sporadically through several movies until we were abruptly woken by shouting.

"Everybody! Check your bags! Check your bags!” A Swedish man was calling up the aisle to us. We have 15,000 baht (US$450) missing! Check all your bags!"

"What's happening?" I drowsily turned to Erik.

"They're missing money. Check your bag."

The Swedish man was walking up and down the aisle checking with each person. His face contorted in bewilderment and rage. While I shuffled through the bag on my lap and found that everything was accounted for, I noticed the bus driver, his accomplice, and the sleeping ten year old boy all seemed to be oddly undisturbed by the commotion.

"What happened?" Erik calmly asked the Swede.

"We have been robbed! My girlfriend is missing her passport and 15,000 baht. Another is missing 13,000!" he said frantically, perspiration highlighted from the dome light of the cabin and panic flashing in his blue eyes. One of the passengers had woken to a rustling at her feet, only to find the bus driver's accomplice going through peoples’ bags as they slept.

With the anger growing among the passengers like an active volcano, courage also grew, and with the backing of his fellow travelers the Swedish man erupted, deciding to confront the bus driver.

"You stole my money! Where is my 15,000 baht? I want my money back! Now!" he demanded behind the driver’s seat.

The Thais pretended not to speak English, quietly shrugging off the uproar. The Swede began pleading, begging and yelled again. Finally fed up with no response from the Thais, he sulked back to his seat to confer with the rest of his group.

Erik and I sat in our front row seats, shocked by the whole ordeal. My pulse was racing. What’s going to happen? I looked from the back of the bus to the front; tensions were high. Interested in what the Thais were doing, Erik leaned over the divider, spying on the driver and his accomplice.

"They're on the phone, whispering!" he reported to the rest of the bus. "Call the tourist police. Have them meet us at the bus station. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

A look of determination came over the Swede and he marched, one guy with him as backup, to the front of the bus once again.

"That’s it! Pull over the bus!" he demanded. "We want our money back! Stop the bus! Stop the bus!" he shouted, his voice now raised to a deafening roar. The Thais responded this time, barking back at the Swede to sit down and be quiet. Erik was leaning over the rail watching the whole thing as I sat back in fear. This continued back and forth, each party getting louder, arm gestures increasing with violent suggestion until the yelling came to a disturbing climax.

"SIT DOWN! You see?! You SEE?!" The bus driver and his accomplice yelled to the two men.

Erik slowly leaned back. "He just pulled out a gun," he whispered to me as the Swede and muscle walked back to their seats. "It was right in front of me! A revolver like thing. He just pulled it out, right in the guy's face."

"What?" I asked is disbelief. "Holy shit." That was the end of us having any chance of reclaiming stolen property. Can't really argue with a gun, can you?

The hushed bus bumped quietly along, the passengers exchanging wide-eyed, nervous glances. The sun was just beginning to crest in front of us, the wet smell of morning coming in through the cracked windows. All of a sudden, the continual bumping changed its rhythm; we had turned onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

Oh hell, what now? Were they going to execute us? Dump us? What could they possibly be doing with a bus load of foreigners in the middle of nowhere and especially, after an altercation? I recalled the woman in the Tokyo airport, her wild hair matted to her neck, who told me about the bus massacre in southern Thailand before we arrived here. A group of militants had overtaken the bus and pulled off all the tourists, killing each American they found. I dismissed it at the time. An obvious scare tactic from an older, gullible tourist who had eaten up every word she was told. Now? Well, now I was a bit concerned.

The bus jerked to the side and we were ordered out. As we all shuffled off the bus, half a dozen men came out of the bushes — shady Thai dudes, all grizzly and big — emerging from the dust and dirt of Nowheresville.

They shoved our bags into our arms while shouting destinations at us, Phuket! Samui! Trang! At our answer, they ushered us into the corresponding songthaews. We rode crammed together, one on top of the other, three people clinging to the back railings and hanging off, and several inside, all of us in stunned confusion and terror. Where were we going? All the way to Phuket like this?

We ended up getting dumped at the real bus station — which the robbers understandably wanted to avoid — and plopped onto another bus. A nice government-run bus. We rode that bus all the way into Phuket, short a camera and some trust, a little frazzled, but hey, at least we weren't shot.

Lesson learned:Private companies suck.

Never Trust a Bus Driver- Part One

2006-10-30T08:15:00.001-05:00

"It would save us..." I made a scrunched up I'm-a-human-calculator face, "190 baht. That's a night’s stay somewhere!"

Erik and I had been to three different travel agencies to compare the price of getting to Phuket, a southern island halfway down the Malay Peninsula, from Chiang Mai, a mountainous city close to the Burmese border in the northwest of Thailand. We had discussed all possible routes and explored combination avenues of van + bus + train, but this seemed to be the best bet with the least amount of stress. With our pockets a lot lighter than planned, we settled on a 900 baht (US$24.51 each) bus trip.

The agency of choice consisted of a nice Thai couple who were more than happy to show us pictures of the “V.I.P.” air-conditioned bus and explain the actual process of getting to Phuket in full. Their broken English was a sing-song cadence of firm instruction mixed with light-hearted jokes.

"But do you trust them? Should we just go through the guest house?" a concerned Erik asked.

"And pay 80 baht more each? They all showed us the same picture of the bus. It's all the same deal. It just depends on where you are picked up," I assured, determined in my frugality.

As we exchanged money for tickets we were instructed about the pickup: "Be here. Sik o'clock. Here. Sik o'clock. Okay? Sik o’clock? (sic)” The agent told us so many times that I was afraid I would get a tardy slip if we were five minutes late.

We turned up at six o’clock and waited in the fluorescent-lit room, its polished linoleum floor reflecting the white strips of light. A sick-sweet smell of pork buns and fish sauce added to the early morning ambience in the one-room office and home.

Erik nervously paced up and down the room past posters depicting smiling tourists atop elephants, white-water rafting, and trekking, while I hunkered down in one of three available folding metal chairs — the kind you take out from the basement for family gatherings, careful to wipe off the spider webs and dust — offered to waiting guests. Across from me sat a worn wooden desk piled with folders, brochures and an archaic computer. The owner-wife sat playing a computer game as her young daughter slept underneath a delicate mosquito net of lace.

After 45 minutes, a rusty grey songthaew (pick-up truck with a covered bed and two benches for passengers) arrived and zoomed us, packed knee to knee with other travelers, to our bus that waited for us at a gas station. The driver hurried us off the songthaew and tossed our bags into the lower compartment of the idling bus while Erik and I scurried on to find a seat. On board we were lucky enough to get two comfy, reclining chairs with blankets right in front of a large television that played such classic movies as Con Air, featuring a jacked Nicholas Cage.

The ride itself was fine. We floated in and out of sleep to adjust body positions and to stretch cramped legs. It was a decent night until we were jolted awake by our fragrantly gnarly bus driver calling, "Bangkok, Bangkok. Wake up. Wake up. Bangkok," as he went by tapping people’s shoulders.

We stretched and wiped the sleep out of our eyes. Half-glancing out of the window I saw the bus driver and staff start to toss our bags and others onto the street. Snapping awake with the threat of losing my bag, we rushed into the 5 a.m. Bangkok air to rescue them from harm. By the time we cinched up — a matter of seconds — the bus was taking off, a thick cloud of black fumes trailing behind.

"They're sure in a rush,” Erik scoffed.

I grumbled in agreement, trying to conceal my morning breath. I stood in the heavy, sticky air, blinking my eyes into coherence and my body into functionality. We stood in the middle of Bangkok at a roundabout deemed Democracy Monument. The sky was still a dark haze of bluish black with only a slight pink hint of morning peeking through the sharp cityscape.

The other passengers fanned out in varying directions around the monument. Erik and I were supposed to go to “KS Guesthouse” to confirm our seats on the next bus, so we hiked through the eerily silent streets of Bangkok, passing benches with sleeping Thais and displaced tourists from the night before.

We rolled into the guesthouse in our rumpled clothes and backpacks and found the deskman.

"We just got off the bus from Chiang Mai. We are supposed to confirm our seats to Phuket."

"Yeah, okay. Is confirmed," the unusually awake looking attendant assured us.

"Great. Here at six o'clock?" We knew the drill.

"Yeah, yeah. Here at sik o'clock (sic). Okay."

"Can we leave a bag here?" I hoped to be able to walk around Bangkok without having to lug the enormous weight around and besides, my shoulders were already hurting from the walk here.

"Okay. Bags. Yeah. In room," he said pointing to a locked gate halfway down a flight of stairs. He handed Erik the key to store my pack, and having decided to take his along with us, he unloaded some heavy objects and unnecessary weight into my bag as I waited upstairs watching Thai television with the attendant.

Sitting in the guesthouse was about as interesting as flicking boogers on the wall so, we decided to make the best of the few hours we had and walked. Our meandering lead us to Khao San Road (known as the backpackers rendezvous) as people were just beginning to set up shop for the day, and those still running from the night before were beginning to settle down. We chose a quiet café with cozy chairs, ordered two coffees and I began to read as Erik went through his bag.

"Do you have my camera?" he asked.

A rush of dread came over me. God, did I have his camera? I rifled through my little day bag. "No, I have mine. It's not in there?" I asked as he sat elbow deep into his bag, trying to conceal the panic that we both were starting to feel wash over us.

"Do you want me to look?" I asked as he sat replaying the last time he had his camera in his mind’s eye. I began looking through his bag-thoroughly. It had to be in here. It just had to be.

"My bag was disheveled when I got it from the bus,” he said wearily. “I noticed it."

Surely it couldn’t have been stolen. “Did you put it in my bag at the guest house?"

"No. I would have remembered," he answered, the anger of helplessness welling up.

"Let's check my bag. Come on," I soothed him, not knowing how exactly to fix the situation. In times of mini-crisis like these, all one can do is to try to be positive.

Back at the guesthouse, our fears were confirmed. Realistically, what could we do? We could call the guesthouse and tell them. We could call the Tourist police and make a statement but we couldn't find the bus or get the camera back. We had to come to terms with the fact that Erik's camera was stolen. The pictures from half our trip were gone — and part of me also worried about finding my digital head pasted on an illicit body on the internet or worse… someone else finding it and thinking it real.

It was a major downer. A tragic loss and a financial, spiritual, and cultural bummer.

Chinatown- Bangkok style

2006-10-24T05:14:00.001-04:00

"Beware da pickapocket," a weathered Chinese lady said to me sternly, our eyes meeting for a brief moment as we passed in the market. Her purse was strapped to her front like an infant carrier, cradled against her body for protection.

Her friendly warning raised my already heightened awareness of my back pockets. With my right hand slightly behind me touching the pocket containing my wallet, and the left doing the same to my passport, I shuffled with the slow moving crowd through a corridor lined with, well, junk.

I'm no stranger to the dangers of traveling and I was well aware of my surroundings. Having dropped off my large pack at the bus station for storage, I maneuvered relatively well through the sea of people with their heads bobbing in and out of the shoebox-sized stores.

Erik, on the other hand, still had his pack and it was limiting his agility to wind around a family stopped to buy a pair of Pokémon socks. He instead toddled through, catching glares from shop keepers afraid that he would knock their precious cargo over.

Chinatown in Bangkok was stimulus overload. Everywhere we flowed with the masses, the scenery morphing into a different section as we went along.

"We've found the towel department!" I squealed in amusement.

"Look, it's the hair accessory aisle," Erik joked back, pointing to his right.

"Where's the sunglass section?" Our goal was to purchase a cheap pair of shades, as mine had broken. But where, in this busy, chaotic maze could they be? We walked around the tunnels of goods with the others like a colony of ants: single file and constantly looking, searching, moving.

“Which way now?" I called behind me. “Left? Right? Straight?” The right led down a small side street lined with food carts, the smells of cooking meats and sweet jellied soy hung in the air. The left was full of trinket salesmen with glittering plastic toys and porcelain salt shakers shaped like cats. Straight continued down the current path of entombment with the ants.

Decisions had to be made in split seconds; the crowd didn't stop so a tourist could look around and decide. They had twenty packs of cheap plastic doll key chains and shiny barrettes to purchase for crying out loud!

We emerged from the tight corridor, spilling into the byway. Fresh fruit stands rimmed the small area giving a splash of organic color to the dimly lit tunnel. Cart men sprayed water from plastic bottles on apples, drenching the fruit in a cool mist that beaded on the tight pink and green skins. One man meticulously placed stems and leaves perfectly atop his bunches of merlot, eyeball-sized grapes. Sliced cantaloupe, papaya, pineapple and green mango sat on ice displayed within a glass cart, ready to be placed in a plastic bag, hit with the dull side of a knife to break it into chunks, and eaten with a small wooden dowel. Piles of fruit still wrapped in its leathery skin sat in pyramids while bunches of ripe, yellow bananas hung on strings. Cardboard signs of curlicue Thai writing separated the piles of produce by price, or what I assumed was the price.

The fruit market led us into the dried-stuffs department. Little dried shrimps, fish, and unknown and indecipherable dried entities sat in large canvas and plastic bags to be weighed out and handed over. Pork rinds? Pig’s ears? Tails? Dried squid? Octopus? I couldn't say, but it looked like cheese puffs without the cheese and came in different shapes and sizes of twisted and gnarled spindles.

Sizzling meat on skewers smoked the area with a delicious tamarind-barbecue aroma. Paying the incredibly reasonable five baht price to the cart of our choice, we requested two kinds of the tender meat. The rumple-faced cart owner proudly presented the sticks, a smile wide across his face at the farang (foreigners) eating his product above the many competitors. We spilt the meat so we each had a selection to try and at each progressive chew, our eyes grew wide, our excitement mounted — how tasty!

We munched as we made our way back into the current, feeling like water going down into a dark and tight drain. We were once again squished together with the petite bodies of Asians and the odd looming tourist. We shuffled past handbags and utility belts and abruptly came to a standstill. We were all smushed together and wondering why we weren't going anywhere. In the distance the crowd separated and piled onto the sides, bodies twisted and packed together. What was going on? And then we heard it — the rumble of a motor scooter. A motor scooter! People couldn't even get through here among people, but now we had to find room to get a motor scooter by? The bike moved through the crowd like an egg passing through the body of a snake, the crowd expanding and contracting around the vehicle as it passed.

We flowed through the plastic bag and wrapping department, the textile department, the luggage department and the cheap jewelry department and as we approached the stuffed animal department, it began to rain. Booth keepers scrambled to put up large plastic sheets over their goods.

A group of men gathered around one particular booth, laughing and shuffling things. What were they looking at? We inched closer and tip-toe-peered over shoulders. Porn, lots and lots of porn: DVD's, pictures and even a sex toy magazine, its pages fluttering scantily in the breeze. Erik and I exchanged a humored glance, a chuckle and moved on in our search.

Sunglasses! A whole section of sunglasses unraveled before us. We found them! I scanned the rows of imitation Oakleys, Diors, Bvgaris and Chanels, trying on each over-sized pair for the right fit. As I looked at myself in a mirror, wearing a pair of fake Dolce & Gabbanas with encrusted faux-diamond arms, I noticed a large object over my left shoulder hanging from the booth behind me. A gun. Holy shit, guns? It couldn’t be real. Could it?

"I guess the sunglasses are in the shady department with the porn and guns," Erik snickered to himself.

The rain picked up. Huge drops began to plummet us. Time stops in Thailand when it rains; traffic pulls over, businesses close up, electricity fades in an out. Everyone at the market hurriedly covered their wares with plastic sheets and sought cover. People on motorbikes pulled off the road nearby to seek shelter underneath a building's overhang. The rain soon became a downpour. Lightning illuminated the market and a moment later the sky cracked open with the sound of a whip.

We stopped along an outer street, out of the throngs of the center market, under an awning to plan our next move. The storefront displayed large gold necklaces with cloudy green jewels. Inside the store, on top of one of the glass jewelry cases filled with yellow-gold sparkles on red silk, knelt a small Thai girl.

Her hair was tied back haphazardly. She was delicately shaking out puffs of powder and rubbing it on her skin. Several Thai women, relatives perhaps, sat around the cases talking. But this little girl, atop the gleaming case of jewelry, applied white powder on her face like a Renaissance courtesan. She had a seriousness and grace about her. She caught my eye and held it as she daintily shook more out into her tiny, upturned palm. She didn't smile, but she didn't grimace either. She just held my eye as she continued smoothing out the powder, turning her skin a ghostly white.

Everything stopped. The sound of my breathing and her eyes were all there was. She was like a pearl, a gem among the shining brilliance of the room. Was she for sale? Was she on display, or just an ordinary kid who just happened to like sitting on jewelry cases instead of the floor?

There was something so innocent, but also perverse in this act. I couldn't help thinking of all the girls involved with the sex trade here, kidnapped or bred into the life of a whore. I became enchanted with this girl, hoping that she wasn't one, but at the same time imagining she was. There was a kind of withdrawal in her eye, an absence. Maybe she was just mechanically powdering as if brushing her teeth; an act so ordinary it was boring and she dissolved into herself while doing it. Why didn't her family notice her?

It was dark and grey, drizzling outside, but this store was like a warm fire with all its radiant, lush colors.

My mind was snapped away by a jolt of lightning reflecting on the glass, a crack of thunder and of the pounding rain. We had a train to catch.

Heaven, heaven is a place...where nothing, nothing really matters... Talking Heads

2006-10-11T08:34:00.000-04:00

The Talking Heads song, Heaven runs through my head as I listen to the repitition of the tides touching the white sand. It is quite different from the hustle and bustle of Phuket Town. The constant whirring of motorbikes and incessant honking of horns seemed to have missed the island of Ko Samui. Oh, they're here all right, but not on the same scale as my former residence.
I was picked up, blery-eyed and exhausted from the airport by Erik. I stood at the baggage claim amongst Farang travelers and a group of boisterous young (dare I say) hooligans. Their tousled hair and foul language echoeing throughout the plane and now the terminal. "Are you guys going to the Full Moon party?"
"Yeah, fuck we are." they hooted to each other. I wasn't sure if there was going to be belly bumps-Friar Tuck style- or just high-fives. Turns out they just kind of shoved each other around a bit. "Are you?"
"Yeah. See you there." Nice chaps. I was watching for my bag while scanning the airport for Erik. It was as if he was a figment of my imagination, an old memory on replay, as he walked towards me. I may have rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Was it really him?
We crusie around this island on his silver bullet of a motorbike. I, with my pink helmet and rockets blasting on the side and he, with his red domed cap helmet. The sun shines down on us in blessing as we venture into uncharted territories. We have covered this island, circumvated it, and tomorrow we will criss-cross it.
The only bad thing was the alien I had in my stomach for a few days. I was Sigorny Weaver, hunched over in agony, begging the little bugger to move on or just take me down. It was the oddest thing. Was it the damn noodle house I went to for lunch? That tea, God! The tea! I drank the whole thing. Or was it something more serious? An implanted viral insect burrowing into my guts and turning everything to mush. Everything hurt. My stomach erupted at random moments bending me in half and making me curse to the sickness gods to make it all stop for Christ's sake. My kidneys ached with a dull pain, my shoulder was sore and my head began to be its own construction site.
"Erik, what's wrong with me?"
"Here, drink this. It'll make you feel better. I had the same thing." He said as he handed me what looked like a glass of dark orange urine.
"What is it?"
"Drink it." I took a swig of the liquid as he eyed me, making sure that I finished every last drop. It tasted like warm iodine and salt. Bitter, but sweet and revoltingly salty.
"Ugh, God! What was that?" I moaned. He laughed at me as I lay fetus position on the corner of the bed making faces to change the taste in my mouth.
"It's good for you. Electrolyte stuff. It was recommended to me."
swell, I'd try anything at this point. I tossed and turned throughout the night in an inferno of chills and soaking my pillow. I had half dreams of going to the pharmacy (where you go if your sick. They are basically doctors for non-emergencies) given some miracle pill and doing cartwheels down the street in celebration of being released from the grips of death.
As time wore on, it lifted like the hood of the grim reeper and I was restored side-kick Molly. It was amazing. I really have never felt so out of control of my own body. I can usually ignore things, eat them off, or deal (sometimes whiskey helps), but this, I tried it all and it just wanted to hang around. One more day and I would have sought help. One more.
Now, back to myself, things are much more enjoyable. We moved to a bungalow on the beach and roll off of our porch and into the ocean. A lovely restaurant and Thai family accompany the rental of our little hut and the children squeal and bring things on platters to us. It's nice to be back.

Bona-Fide

2006-10-05T06:59:00.000-04:00

Yessirree folks. I'm a certified TESOL teacher. I'm ready to break new ground in molding minds in the ways of the English language. Now, I just have to find a job. But that will come. First thing is first- more traveling. I head out of Phuket Town tomorrow to reconnect with my other half. I fly to Ko Samui and then continue on to Ko Pan Yang (spelling?) Then we'll cruise back to Bangkok and head north to Chaing Mai and everywhere inbetween and finally dropping down the Adaman coast and back to Phuket--all the while waving my certificate around!! Yippee.

Here comes the rain again....

2006-09-29T02:44:00.000-04:00

My travel alarm clock chirped into my ear as I lay sprawled out on my twin bed, wrapped in mosquito netting. Another restless night of tossing and turning has torn my bed into shambles. As I fight my way out of the cacoon, blindly grasping for the cool, metal clock, a ray of light illuminates my room into a golden hue. At least it's going to be another beautiful day. I toss the netting and mexican inspired blankets over my head as I swing my feet to the floor, rubbing my eyes and letting out a howl of sleep before sliding the little button on my clock to 'shut the hell up.' With a yawn and a stretch of my arms over my head I pull myself up to standing, let's get this show on the road. As I do every morning, I pull open my shades in a perfected, dramatic swoop of the arms, allowing the outside sun to brighten up my room. The palm tree outside my window is birthing more coconuts and the blue sky is patchworked with clouds.
I morning-walk to my bathroom and brush my teeth with the bottle of water I keep by the sink. Perfecting the skill of limited water brushing. It begins to sound as though my neighbor is taking a shower and I think, how odd. I've never noticed hearing that before. I finish up, spitting the last glob of toothpaste down the drain while sticking my contacts into my eyes. I walk out of my bathroom groping the wall with my hand, switching off the light, and the room has gone a sort of purplish-grey, the window covered with drops of water and the palm tree outside almost bent over as if to gather her fallen children from the ground.
That's how fast it happens here. You turn around and the rain has snuck up on you. Sometimes, a fog of smokey purple wraps itself around the mountains and you can anticipate the arrival; other times you blink and it downpours. The worst was the day it shook my building. A storm we, in the States, would call a tropical storm, is a mere whisper here. Electricity went out and the wind was whipping in and out of cracks in the plaster, speaking in Thai. But within an hour, it was sunny. The frogs were singing a memoir to the rain- an orchestra of themselves, and I was able to walk to class avoiding puddles, but dry.

2006-09-27T09:11:00.000-04:00

Conducting a Student Profile, and Receiving A Lot More.
Molly F. McGill

“You learn a lot in your classes, but you can’t learn about human relationships and about life from a book.”
-Julie Venci, Washington University

It was a little daunting at first. In fact, I was downright nervous. “Go out and find someone in the community to do a student profile on.” Find someone in the community? I was already plunked half way across the globe, in a totally different culture attending a TESOL Certification course, and now I had to go out on my own and offer someone an hour-long, free one on one course—oh, my!
Conducting a student profile seemed like an impossible feat, but as time progressed I came to realize the importance of one. As described in a chapter from the Diversity Institute: “In order to effectively choose teaching methods and help students learn, you must first know something about who you are teaching to…” On completion of my course, I intend to stay in Thailand and to seek a teaching position in one of the various schools. But how else could I get to know the people I would soon be teaching better than getting out and meeting some of them?
Deciding who I would ask was the hardest part. Various locals ran through my head that I had met: the local bar owner’s wife, a waitress at a restaurant I frequented, a staff person where I was staying, even someone I had met out on the town. Eventually, I choose a local business man who I had met when I went to purchase my mobile phone. The biggest challenge in starting the student profile was getting up the courage to ask someone.
A student profile consists of two parts: the evaluation, and the lesson itself. The evaluation consists of a needs analysis, where you and your student decide what they would like to learn. And a placement evaluation, where the teacher does a series of tests (verbal, reading, and possibly written), to determine the level the student is at. My student was in the starter group decided by his pronunciation, answers to questions, and reading and comprehension ability. But what was important wasn’t the completion of the evaluation and scheduling of the lesson, but the fact that he invited me to stay for coffee, to chat and get to know each other. It gave me insight into teaching and one on one lessons that I hadn’t experienced in the classrooms yet—a building block to a relationship. The National Academies Press hit it nose on when they wrote, “Good teaching requires that we bridge the chasms of perception, language, background, and assumption that may impede effective communication…” Effective communication begins with the formation of a relationship. Whether that relationship is formal, informal, friendly, or serious, the creation of one opens up the potential for greater learning.
The one on one community lesson has been one of the most enjoyable lessons I have taught as of now. I tailored a lesson to what he wanted to learn and things that I thought would be useful to him. We went through the material carefully and methodically, but with an ease and comfortable air that is only attained through conversation. On completion of the lesson, we talked about life, about his family, his businesses and about what I have experienced in Thailand so far. This gave me the opportunity to not only become a better teacher, but to understand the culture and be invited to see inside it a little more deeply. Rob Collins is quoted on the Washington University Service Office website as stating, “Getting out into the community changes your perspective in a positive way, but you may not realize that until afterward,” and I couldn’t agree with him more.

Resources:
Diversity Institute: Center for the Integration of Research, Teaching, and Learning,
Importance of Knowing Your Students, 1997: http://cirtl.wceruw.org/DiversityInstitute?resources/resource- book/addressingstudentsneeds.htm

The National Academies Press: http://www.nap.edu/readingroom/books/str/8.html

Washington University in St. Louis Community Service Office:
http://www.communityservice.wustl.edu/quotes/

Act 1 Scene 12

2006-09-24T22:20:00.000-04:00

It was like a scence from a movie and all I could think was, Wow, This is my life now. I was in a wooden longboat skimming across the turquoise water-bikini clad with shades on- and people back home are in cubicles typing up reports. How fortunate for me. We had a hell of an intinerary planned and even three bottles of Samsong whiskey from the previous night couldn't slow us down...for the most part. Sure we were in rough shape: red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled, slept in clothes, unbalanced walking and a queasiness that came in waves, but by God we were on one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Ko Phi Phi!
The island itself has 2 parts: Phi Phi Don and Phi Phi Leh. One bigger than the other and both connected by a thin beach and village, water visible on both sides. With most of the area a Marine Park, natural beauty is bountiful. Myself and four others arrived on a tour I saw in a brochure, 'Only 1,100- Baht.' Food, snacks, snorkeling, sight seeing and-gasp-transportation to and from your hotel. The cab fare that it would have cost to get to the pier equaled the price of the trip.
The day started off grey. It was a little cloudy, but it soon burned off as we neared Phi Phi (pronounced P. P.), an hour later. We pulled into the dock and dropped some people off but where instructed, because of our little green stickers, to stay aboard. We motored to the bay and were given snorkel and mask, a lovely bright yellow and black, and were let loose among the coral. Being afraid of water-ocean more so- it took me some time to warm up to the activity. I finally got it and orchestrated my breathing. Once I calmed down enough to actually stay underwater I was amazed by the scope of color and variety of marine life: Parrot-fish, their chubby blimp like bodies and electric colors each a little different from the other, Angel fish, clown fish, and all kinds of flashy bright fish whom I have no idea on the names. It was amazing. At one point I was completely encompassed by a school of stripped blue, black, and yellow mini fish. I could feel their little bodies whirl past me. Holding out my hand I tried to catch some, but they are fast little devils! It was hard not to smile as they danced in front of your mask, almost teasing you to try. After an hour of snorkeling, of which my friends and I were the first in and last out (got my money's worth!), we had fresh fruit on the boat as we cruised on a sight-seeing tour of the island and all of its lagoony, cliff wonder.
Phi Phi explodes out of the crystal teal water in completely steep vertical shoots. The walls of which are a geology lesson in itself. Krabi, the province that Phi Phi belongs to, is known for it's limestone cliffs and ultimate rock climbing, but I am not sure if these were in fact limestone. These rock walls were more grey with orange clay like color mixed in. It was like peanut brittle ridged and flaky, covered by green little shrubs, palms, and trees. The root systems of which blend into the stone turning grey as it connects making intricate sprawling lines in spots. The cliffs let to white sand beaches in spots creating coves of pristine, picture-postcard perfect mini heavens where green meets grey meets white meets turquoise: Kodak moment. Nestled in the cliffs are a series of coves. One being the "Viking Cave" from years past. Others are higher up in the cliffs and many have locals living in them- a small bungalow and dishes inside.
The whole was moving, mind blowing and spiritual. As we docked for lunch we all had an urge to stay, and I voiced it:
"Let's stay!"
"You want to? I'm down."
"Yeah, let's get a bungalow."
"Dude, if we can get a cheap one, I'm in."
"Let's check it out. We can find the cheapest one."
"Really?"
"Totally!"
We sat down to the buffet style meal: Tom Yam seafood soup, rice, sweet and sour fish with vegetables, spaghetti and sauce, stewed local veggies, fried fish squares, fresh pineapple and watermelon and more. The flavors created a delicious mix and I had to stop myself from going for a third helping.
We found a reasonable bungalow and set up camp. It was time to explore...Which led us right to the beach as our bodies overheated and begged for salt water relief.
By four it was happy hour and nothing says happy like Samsong buckets. By buckets, I mean children's beach pails filled with ice, a bottle of whiskey, red bull, and cola. It was two for one. So we went for it. Splitting it four ways as one of our companions had gotten really ill and had to go back to the room.

The next morning was filled with "Do you remembers" and pointed fingers teamed with fits of laughter. It was seven a.m. and we were ready to roll, chowing food and figuring out what to do with our day. The streets are lined with various shops boosting, Tours, Scuba, Sights, and Sales! But the way to go is to hire a local in one of their Longboats. Longboats are long, wooden boats with a small tarp for shade in the middle and a large propeller controlled by the local in the back for steering. After some barter we sloshed out to it and hopped in. Donning the normal blessings of flowers and sashes on the front, our boat was ready to voyage. We checked out the caves up close and personal first. That is when we realized the residency. After that we scooted into crystal clear water in a small cove. It was too much and we had our driver stop so that we could jump out into the water and swim around. It was unbelievable. Surrounded by jutting green cliffs I floated on my back and took it all in, the water warm and the scenery amazing. We then went to a snorkeling spot (but you didn't even have to snorkel. The water was so clear that you could see the fish right from the boat!), and our driver showed us a secret way to get to Maya Bay.
We swam from the boat to the side of the cliffs. The waves pushed us to a little cave opening, and entrance to the valley. We each floated through the small hole and it opened up to a grassy mini beach with a trail. We followed the trail through the woods and as it turned from packed dirt to white loose sand, we emerged from the white flowered field and into Maya Bay. With stalactites hanging from the cliffs rimming one side of the white sand beach, we swam. Almost fully enclosed with a small outlet to the sea where boats access it, it truly was a small paradise.
We walked back- more to do- but I veered off and followed another path for curiosity sake.
As I was walking my eye caught a small movement and a butterfly, the size of one of my hands, fluttered in front of me. As I was watching its black and iridescent blue wings beat the fragrant air, heavy with the dense smell of forest and wet dirt, another, larger, butterfly joined it. This one with orange and red accents and dew drop bottom wings. Together they danced around me, and I swore that they were doing it just for me. I held out my right pointer finger for a landing post and they twirled around it delicately moving around it, up my arm, and around my body. I gasped with the sheer beauty of it-magical- and they flew off into the palms. I hurried back to my group and met them as they slipped back through the cave.
After, we went cliff jumping and to "Monkey Island" but unfortunately we saw no monkey. A big let down for me as I'm dying to see some monkeys and have yet to. We also went to "Shark Point" to swim with sharks (his broken English reassuring me that they wouldn't bite, "Just small baby.") But alas, no sharks either.
The rest of the day was filled with sunshine, salt water, and curried dishes on rice topped with a fried egg. But we all departed with the memory of paradise, and a promise to return.

Coup Coup Ca Chu Coup Coup Ca Chu...

2006-09-19T22:28:00.000-04:00

So, before eveyone gets all Coup'ed up and nailbiting lets make two things clear: Each media outlet you use has their own agenda, You don't know what is going on unless you're here with the people. With that said, Yes, there is a coup. A military coup.
What's going on? Well, Thaksin the Prime Minister has been deemed corrupt (maybe rightly so as his family owned the largest telecommunications network in Thailand and just sold it for something along the lines of a few billion). People are calling for his resignation for tax avoidance and profiting off of the Thai people. Hmmmm. I'd be a little bitter too. (Echo Mr. Bush and his family's multimillion Haliburton and C. Group dealings). With that, The Royal Family and the military have to do something about it.
So, you can't just go on T.V. and say, "There's a Coup." You have to actually bring in some tanks and military to make it look official. Just because there are tanks, soldiers with guns, and things are shut down DOESN'T mean that there will be any shots fired. The military has moved in and taken over Bangkok. Everything is shut down IN BANGKOK. They have issued Marshall Law which means each commander is now in charge of their region. There has been NO VIOLENCE and it is doubtful there will be any. If shit hits the ol' rotating fan I'm Sure King Bhumibol will step in. He has had a good track record of 60 years calming coups and riots. Thailand has been stable for the past 15 years with the last uprising in the early nineties with which the King stepped in and humbled the then Prime Minister.
Things are fine. Well, maybe not for Thaksin as he was in the U.S. for a U.N. meeting and will probably be arrested on his return. But for the people. We're just dandy. Just all government buildings are shut down for the day. Beach anyone?
Channels not to watch for updates: Fox News- they are the epitome of swayed hot aired filled media. They tend to blow things completely out of proportion. BBC will be rather conservative.

A Quicky

2006-09-19T07:44:00.000-04:00

Saturday I bought a phone....and lost it three hours later. Sweet deal. At least it wasn't my camera or wallet. Sympathy donations can be given straight to my bank account.

I'm a mosquito buffet right now. I'll tell ya'll the story later.

Night Ride (r)

2006-09-18T22:13:00.000-04:00

"Hullo, where you go?" He seemed to have popped out of nowhere. Eight of us had just finished dinner at E Saan, a local Thai restaurant, just a hop, skip and a jump away from both our school and living accommodations. With multiple levels, an algae-green spouting fountain in the middle, balcony set with Christmas lights and an open-air kitchen, it was a good deal. The place even had its own litter of puppies lolling around and sneaking up and nipping your toes. I was especially found of the white pup, its face divided down the nose with tan on one side and white on the other.
After a delicious meal of soupy coconut curry chicken and multiple shared dishes, we decided to go downtown to a local pub, O'Malley's, to start the night. O'Malley's is the only Irish bar in town and is run--funny enough--by an English man and his Thai girlfriend. It has sort of become the TEFL hangout bar and they offer a grand "Two for One" Chang beer night... But that was last night and that is a different story. Tonight was Friday night. As the mob of us left the restaurant and walked onto the sidewalk and into the night air heavy with curries, fish sauces and herbs, we were greeted by a slight drizzle and heavy traffic.
It was getting late, nine already. So we decided to all take motor taxis as people were waiting for us to arrive. As eight of us stood on the corner anticipating the usual 'meep, meep' of the motorbikes (aka scooters) we were surprised that not one had driven by in the past 40 seconds. Figures right? When you don't need one, you are swarmed. When you do need one, they are no where to be found.
Finally, one wheels over after Charlie, a blond from England with an infectious laugh and large eyes, hopped into the street waving her arms.
"Alright, two to a bike, yeah?" Dean, the big brother of us all, instructs. "You two get on this one here, yeah. And we just have to get a few more, and we should be good, eh?" Charlie and Tony begin climbing onto the bike while Dean gives the driver instructions.
Meanwhile, I'm looking up the road to see if I can flag another down. As I'm peering into the night with the hood of my raincoat protecting my face from the drizzle, I turn and am surprised by a small Thai man, his arms out to his sides as if he is going to give a bear hug palms up, "Hullo, where you go?" His wide missing tooth smile climbing from ear to ear.
"Uh, O' Malley's." I look around a little confused. This guy just, like, materialized out of thin air.
"Where'd he come from?" Suzie, a nice Liverpool native, half whispers to me with a perplexed look reflecting the one on my face.
"I dunno?"
"Right, okay. Here's another. Who's on this one?" Dean asks while his hands give directions to the previous bike carrying the other two.
"Where you go?"
"O'Malley's...Irish bar...You know?" I ask him.
"No problem. Okay, okayokayokayokay." He half spins back to his bike.
"Okay?"
"Yeeees. O'Malley's. No problem." He lets out a little chuckle, more of a 'hehehehehe' than a chuckle. It has an eerie kind of giggle aspect to it; it's the kind you'd let out as a kid when you saw something you knew you weren't supposed to and thought that maybe you'd get in trouble, "50 baht."
"Two people?"
"Yeeeeeaaah. 50 baht. No problem."
"30 baht."
"Oooookay. No problem." ...And the chuckle returns.
Right, I think to myself as I hop on the back of the bike.
"Don't worry about us. We'll get the next motor." Suzie calls as she and her Scottish boyfriend, Matt, continue to look up the street. The first bike motor offs and Dean walks toward us. Meanwhile, the driver had been talking to me. Mind you, I have no idea what he is saying, and it is starting to seem a little weird. Especially when he begins to lets out that chuckle...
"Who's coming on? Let's roll." I say. Dean hops on and the bike almost topples over.
"Hehehehe, no problem." and we wheel off, a little wobbly, down the road. We see our other two friends walking on the side of the street.
"Heeeey!" we call out, thinking that we'd just fly by. But our driver decides that he wants to have a little chat. Maybe he forgot we were on. He asks the guys if they want to see girls and we all kind of give each other 'the eyes'. You know, the 'wait a minute what's up with this guy' eyes. Yeah.
We give the driver a tap to make him go, "No problem. Hehehehee. Girls. HAHA." He says to himself as we wobble back into traffic. Well, actually. It is kind of a problem. I'm not really ready to die. Because at this point I realize that this dude is either drunk, stoned, or something else. I just got done a heated conversation about crack cocaine being a huge growing problem in Phuket and with this guy's missing teeth and demeanor, I become a little uneasy. Dean and I look at each other and it's obvious we are both thinking the same thing. I lean forward and give him a little sniff. He doesn't smell like alcohol. This guy just talks away in Thai, laughing to himself and asking us questions. You can tell he is going through his Farang repertoire. We have no idea what he is saying. We just kind of nod, say "kha" and "Krup" and hope to God we make it to O'Malley's.
He is weaving in and out of the lane, wobbling all over the place. This is it. This is how I'm going to go? They'll have to tell my loved ones I was on my way to the bar and a drunk taxi driver singing 'You are Always on My Mind' crashed and killed us. That's it. Dear, Lord. He continues singing and I join in with him for two reasons: one- if I'm going to go, I'm going to be having a good time, two- he drove a LOT better when he was singing. We approach a light and I can see the green counting down, "3,2,1...No problem" he calls out as we wheel right through. Geezus. We pass the street O'Malley's is on and holler to him to pull over. Half in relief, half in just wanting to get the frick off of the death bike.
We pay the man and burst into O'Malleys, "You'll never guess what just happened..."

*To the parental figures. Lessoned learned just sharing funny story. No lectures please. HA!

"Thank You, Teacha'"

2006-09-15T04:15:00.000-04:00

It was 5:17 pm (or 17:17 as they say here), and four sets of eyes beamed up at me from their little wooden desks. They were arranged in the white walled classroom in a mini horseshoe lining the perimeter.
"Hello, I am Molly."
A chorus of "hellos" echoed in the small classroom as I wrote my name in squeaky dry erase marker on the white board. As I went around the room asking the students their names, I made a mental note as to which ones were difficult, and which ones I would possibly have trouble pronouncing during my class. I tried to associate their names with things I knew. Ex: Oiy was like the ACDC or Aussie exclamation, OY!
*(Thais have formal names given at birth and as they grow up they get a series of nicknames. For instance, your name could be Thomas, but as a baby everyone called you Tiny because you were rather small. And in the same sense, "Trouble" as a child, "Hairy" as a teenager, "Chubby" as an adult and so on).
I began my class with what TEFL International calls an "Engage" technique:
a: apple
b: boat
c: cat
d:?
"Dirt!" a student called out smiling from ear to ear, obviously very pleased with herself.
"Dirt. Very good. A,b,c,d...?"
"E!"
"Egg!"
We continued all the way through to the letter Z. The students shouted out examples and rattled out the alphabet so fast that my pen could hardly keep up with them. A student popped in halfway through the exercise and apologized profusely.

I stood in front of the white board; feet covered in dress shoes, knees covered by my black, purple, and white checkered capris, and white collared shirt buttoned up to cover my chest, shoulders and stomach. In Thailand, teachers are four down in the hierarchy of respect, directly under Monks. So, it's important to look the part and to carry yourself well. A good place to be a teacher if I ever heard of one.
I glanced at the little blue plastic clock to the right of me hanging between the closed windows and began to teach my lesson: Pronouns.
TEFL teaches you to try to elicit all your responses from the students to maximize student talk time and limit lecture style. My class was a beginner class with two strong students and two very weak students. I never imagined how hard it is to try to get your students to participate and fill in the blanks you need when they have no idea what you are talking about. I kind of just wanted to tell them the answer, fill it in, tell them why--but you can't. You have to do whatever it takes to get them to say it.
Fortunately for me, they understood the concept and question.
"Oiy, what time do you eat breakfast?" I asked while writing the question on the board so that they could ingest it visually.
"I eat breakfast at 8 0'clock." she half-whispered, glancing around the room for affirmation and congratulatory nods from her peers.
"Very good. I eat breakfast at 8 o'clock." I mimed back to her as I wrote her reply on the board. We continued this until I generated a list of five different responses to use in changing the name to a Pronoun.
"What is another way of saying this?" Blank stares.
"How can I say this without saying the name?" Stares. Someone coughs. A desk groans as someone shifts their weight. I had to think of something fast, I was losing them. I was on the pier and they were struggling to tread water. I think I saw a head bob under slightly, exhausted faces pleading with me to throw them a life preserver, an inflatable chair, anything! The dry erase marker glared up at me with it's beady little eyes, "Use me, ya tool." I could hear it saying in my head. Ah, yes. The mighty pen. But how shall I use thee?
"Okay..." I began circling the name of the person with vicious ferociousness, "Oiy eats breakfast at 8 o'clock." Drawing a line to the other side of the board, I wrote the sentence again but missing the subject, an arrow pointing to it circled in black. I tapped the pen on the empty space surveying the classroom for a light to go on in any of their heads.
"I?" a student squeaked out.
"Yes, I. What else?" The students began speaking in Thai, trying to figure out what the heck I wanted.
"She?" a student directly in from of me asked.
"Yes! She!" I thought I was going to burst from relief. "She eats breakfast at 8 o'clock! Now, Gim goes to work at 9 o'clock. Gim?" I asked as I rewrote the sentence missing the name and tapping the empty spot at the beginning of the sentence.
"He!" the same student more confidently chirped out. They all looked at me, awaiting my answer in suspense.
"Yes! He! He goes to work at 9 o'clock." We were on a roll now. The pen was a-squeaking away, if the students were a different culture I imagine high-fives would have been thrown out around the room, bells were tolling in churches, handicapped of all ages were miraculously healed, I was amped up.
The lesson continued with more examples and Pronoun placement. It was time to move onto the worksheet I had worked so hard on cutting and pasting, rewriting, editing, and copying until my fingers bled. Maybe not that hard, but close. This was the true test, would they pass? Would they become Jedi Pronoun users?
I monitored their work as the pairs dove into it. The three more advanced students whipped it out as if I had only asked their addresses. The new students scratched their heads and squinted at the paper as if to force the writing into something more comprehensible. With a little help from their peers, the students got it and began filling it out. I called on them to read their answers aloud. When an error came up I put it on the board.
"She go to the store? She go?"
"No, no..." They called out, "goes!"
"Ah, goes. Very good. She goes to the store."
I wanted to explain it, to tell them about conjugating verbs but it would have only caused more confusion. I continued on, giving an example on the board and then passing out worksheet number two.
"This time Maya and J." I told them, pointing to the two girls and suggesting together with my hands. By golly it worked! They switched seats and began working diligently away. I glanced at the clock, 5:35 pm. I still had 25 minutes left. Shit, I was running out things to do. I still had one more worksheet and a game to play. I could always stretch it out I suppose.
The students did pretty well for the most part. A few errors here and there, but as soon as I turned to put the wrong sentence on the board they self corrected the error. The hardest part was being able to hear them. I felt like I was wearing protective earwear. The big earphones one wears while shooting guns or other loud activities.
"Say it again?" I asked
"Shmimg."
"What?"
"Shiming." She replied as she looked around the room for help. The other students talked to her in Thai.
"It's okay." I said with the friendliest don't be afraid it isn't necessarily wrong I just can't flippin hear what you're saying because I am a deaf 24 year old from American smile, "Again?"
"Shiming."
"Can you spell it?
"Swimming. " The person next to her calls out.
"Ah, swimming. Yes, I like swimming too. Great." I mimicked swimming a little and they all giggled.
The class went well and the Activate activity (game) was okay, but not as fun and useful as I thought it would be. I handed out the board game and showed them how to play,
"Take a Pronoun card. " I said while taking a purple card, "Take a Verb card." I took a green card, "Pick a sentence," I put the piece down on the board, "and make a sentence." They began scanning all the cards and trying to fit them into sentences. I looked at the clock, 5:50. Ten minutes. I can do this. We're almost there. Just a little longer. I thought to myself as the students continued to make sentences. After my one minute warning, I had each of them tell me a sentence that they made. I then wrote it on the board and had them correct any errors.
6:00. "Thank you. Buh-bye." I said waving to them.
"thank you, teacher!" they sang out. wai'ing at me as they got out of their desks. (wai: to bow with hands together in an act of greeting or departure). I shuffled my papers and they helped me to collect all the pieces of the game, almost fighting over who got to clean them up for me. They left and I wiped off the white board. Clean, ready for lesson number two.

Back to school

2006-09-11T06:26:00.000-04:00

9:20. I was supposed to be down stairs in the conference room to begin my first class. Good thing I was up at 7:oo am. I just can't sleep when I'm in a new spot. It's like falling asleep on a friend's couch-- you're awake unusually early, even if you didn't get to sleep until the wee hours of the night.

From my balcony I could see a couple of farang (foreigners) sitting downstairs on the porch. Good as time as any to meet some people. After some chatting, we all went up to the conference room to get our schooling on. It was your usual introductions to the course and to your instructors and classmates: "Two interesting things about the person sitting next to me were that she has met most of the royal family, and that she is a certified scuba diver that hasn't dove in seven years." That kind of stuff.

The course is pretty jam packed with things to do. I actually just got out of my first observation class. We had five Thai students in a "starter" class, which is basically beginner speakers. I observed a teacher here at the a school. The lesson was on time: telling time, reading time, am vs. Pm, morning vs. Afternoon, afternoon vs. Evening, evening vs. Night. It was great to get a demonstration before jumping in. There were worksheets, games and question and answer segments. It was really interesting to watch. The Thai students (all teenagers), knew for the most part what to say, but needed coaching on pronunciation. They struggled to get the "ch" in "couch" and the "ish" is "finish". But after some impromptu sounding of words they felt more comfortable.

I start teaching on Weds. WEDNESDAY! I have to prepare my lesson tomorrow when I know what level I have. I'm a little nervous, but appreciative to be able to jump right in. What's that old motto? Practice makes perfect? Yeah, that's it. Well I'll sure be getting enough of that.

Patong, tong, tong tong tong.

2006-09-10T07:01:00.000-04:00

"I'm frum Switzerland, yeah. My friend, he's frum Norgwey."
The little Thai girl in her string tank top and too tight jeans smiles and nods. I saw her walk by a second ago...Alone.
"You go and I follow. Get un veer frum da shop."
I watch as the large Swiss follows the girl down the front of the bars while he slobbers and struggles into his black tank top. I glance away to the ocean, half smirking to myself. I take in a breath as the crystal water rolls out to low tide. I scan back in their direction; like a drug, I can't look away. She is showing him her motor bike and he hands her his beer as he wheels it out of the parking spot. Rotated to leave, he hops on. She climbs onto the back, almost falling off from his size, and hands him her jazzy helmet. He squeezes his fat head into it and off they go...
That's kind of the scene at Patong beach. That, tourists, and people trying to sell you something. Every middle aged man has a hot little Thai girlfriend? Doubtful. Maybe for a few thousand Baht and a time limit they do. Yowza.

I walked into town today (I think the taxis are really starting to hate me. I'm the only one that walks. They beep. I smile. They ask, "Where you go?" I answer, "Mai Kha." they wheel off and it all happens again about 50 times into town). I reached the market, the supposive hub of buses and after a little cruising around and squinty eye reading of signs I was directed to Phuket Patong bus. As I surveyed the digs, a man on the bus in front started asking me, "Where you go?" He was a bit strange and he straddled the back pole of the bus, his legs dangling like Willow tree spindles.
"Patong."
"Ah, Patong, Patong. Patong, Patong. Patong, PAtong!"
Okay, he was a bit odd. I just smiled and boarded my bus...In the back...Away from him. For 20Baht (50 cents) I bumped along to Patong. Of course my seat was the one with the rickety window rattling away in my ear, but at least I could enjoy the view. We climbed up and over a mountain, (and when I say climbed I actually mean crawled up. It was like the little bus that could. I just keep saying I think we can. I think we can). The mountain broke off on the side to cliffs falling into a valley and at the top there was the most amazing view of my city surrounded by jungle covered mountain and littered with red roofed houses. The sun fell right into the city creating dark shadows that creeped up into the mountains. I nodded.
We descended and wrapped around a corner and there she was, Patong with all her crystal blue wonder and white sand gorgeousness. I hopped off the bus and started my exploration. My feet took me straight to water's edge, the surf tickling my toes and pulling my legs into it's warm wetness. Beach. Walking up the beach you find lots of beach chairs. For 50 baht you get one, an umbrella, and a nice Thai to cater to your whim. It was quite nice.

As the day went on my stomach grumbled, letting me know that I had forgotten something: lunch. After much cruising I settled on a place and had Massaman curry. Which is basically a thick curry (aka soupy for you non-curry lovers) with chicken over rice. God, this food is good. As long as I don't get a fish head and other waterdwelling appendages I'm fine. Choosing food in Phuket is like playing the lottery. It's a game of survey, point, and hope to God it isn't some sort of seafood dish. Tonight I'm going to try the brown one. The other day I had an interesting fish pastey oystery one. Bad move. Don't get the milky white one. Molly No like.

Patong is lined with shops, massage parlors, shops, restaurants, shops, and oh, shops. It's like Old Orchard beach in Maine. Only these aren't stores. There aren't any stores for the most part. Everything is tarped roofed and in little cubes with the front completely open and the walls lined with whatever it is that certain shop sells.
"Tuk, Tuk?"
"Madame, a scarf. Madame, you like? One minute, you look inside"
"CD?"
"'allo. You look inside?"
"allo Madame, you like beach shirt?'
"Tuk, Tuk?"
"Tour? You want elephant?"
"'allo. Come see. Silk"
Jeepers people! Can't a girl just walk down the sidewalk rimmed with shops and NOT buy something? Apparently they didn't think so. But I didn't. HA! One point me.

I t was getting late so I went in search of my dear Tuk Tuk as it was too late to catch the bus. It stops at 5. But I wasn't worried. If there is one thing that there isn't a shortage of it is transportation. I bargained with a motor taxi man and hopped on. That's right, folks... On the back of one of these crazy motorcycle taxis. Rush hour. We went a totally different way then I had in the morning. Maybe it's Thailand's way to make tourists sympathize because I went through some seriously hurt areas. I'm talking tin huts on stilts. It was humbling. But we did go over the mountain and I got a glimpse of that spectacular view as we whirled with the other bikes, cars, and carts.

Ah, my town.

Destination Attained

2006-09-09T05:43:00.000-04:00

I wonder when they are going to hand me my helmet and very own jumpsuit...maybe with a stylish silver strip over the shoulder and down the leg--fast. The traffic has no rules only that you better go if you're going to go. Motor bikes go wherever they want and squeeze into tiny spaces like mice. As we whirled, honked and skimmed through traffic I made small talk with the girl who picked me up at Phuket Airport... She wan't much of a talker, but I did get some yummy green tea gum from her. Score.
Phuket is, well, Markety? I guess I should start with my whereabouts for all you parental types. I am in Phuket Town. The east side near the bay, but don't get me wrong, I see no bay. I'm inland right smack dab in the heart of Phuket Town. I have a sweet double room in a hotel (self titled "The Mansion", which it isn't), I have a little balcony that looks over a nice creamy brown river, a leaky toilet and unlimited Thai channels on the ol' tube. Yes, that's right, I flicked on some Thai Star Seach-esk show as I unpacked. The boy band tore it up.
I'm 20 mins from the beaches by bus, TukTuk or motor bike. I'm going there tomorrow.

I'm sitting in this internet cafe next to five thai adolescents screaming and fighting over a computer game. One is in what appears to be a boyscout uniform. He must be the leader.

I walked into town (20mins?) against the wishes of every Motorbike taxi and TukTuk driver in town. I've been wandering around bobbing in and out of curious shops and food markets. I found the worst smell in the world: piles and piles of dried fish, shrimpies, and other aquatic beings. It's definately different.

Bangkok was a hoot. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. I miss my sidekick.
The leader just killed the large monster and gained immunity and lots of points... gotta go.

Arrival in Thailand

2006-09-07T20:30:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone! we figured that this would get t everyone more efficiently. I only have 2 mins. so... We are good. We are in Bangkok and everything went fine...ish. Jet lag be damned. Write more when we have time and can find internet.
Molly & Erik

And it's one for the money... Two for the show... Three to get ready...

2006-09-04T00:48:00.000-04:00

Holy schnikes. It seemed like just yesterday teaching abroad and Thailand was just an amusing idea-- Now concrete and formulated, bag packed and busting at the seams-- it has become reality. I find myself getting sentimental over little things: a ring my mother gave me from Czech Republic, the smell of Erik, An old T-shirt I've had for years, seams worn and tattered, but snug in all the right places. I love to move on. I love to be able to go. To leave. To grow. But it is always hard when it comes down to the last minute... You think you are leaving nothing, that there wasn't anything here that was inspiring you to be more than comfortable... but then you say goodbye and it hits you in the face like wrinkles when you're older, unsuspecting.
I am excited to go. I'm thrilled to be able to do this adventure with someone I love. But I'm going to miss some people more than they might ever know. I'm going to miss their growth and development and it chokes me up to think that I'm not going to be there.
I downsized my closet aproximately 10 times, and again as I packed and it wouldn't all fit. It is so hard to move your entire life into a duffle bag and a carry on. How thrilling? My life has become one checked bag and a carry-on-- beautiful.
I'm going to miss breakfast: runny eggs, bacon, homefries. But I am going to appreciate a whole new taste. I hope I can correspond with you all and share it with you.
...And here we go....