A serious list: the Proverbs of Being Me

It’s taken some time but I’ve learned some things in life. Some were hard lessons and some were easy lessons and most were lessons I could only learn through experience. Some are observations, some are rules. Periodically, I have to remind myself of these things.

1] Money doesn’t buy happiness.

2] Material things don’t buy happiness.

3] The only way to insure constant praise is to be mediocre. The harshest criticism often goes to the best and for reasons which are often as conflicted as this sounds: some are jealous, some can only feel good about themselves if they tear someone down, and a very small percentage of those harsh critiques come from people who want to push the person to become more.

4] Fear has never motivated anyone to do anything constructive.

5] Every single person out there can teach you something, you just have to listen.

6] Everyone plays a role designed to hide the person they are on the inside.

7] Emotion lacks purity.

8] The universe is filled with people who have never left that stage of psychological development where the world revolves around them. They expect you to prove yourself to them over and over again and yet they never feel the need to reciprocate.

9] The most arrogant people are often the ones with the lowest self esteem.

10] People who are unhappy with themselves often seek to lower the self esteem of others.

11] You’ll never find what you’re looking for, but you’ll always get what you deserve.

12] If you’re looking for what you deserve, you will never see it and it will pass you by.

13] You can’t make people behave the way you think it appropriate. People cannot be controlled. Trying to control people will only make you unhappy.

14] Anger is over rated. Anger never made anyone else perform better or faster or to your liking.

15] No one deserves to be used. No one can use you if you don’t let them.

16] Everyone has a struggle. Don’t wallow in yours.

17] If you throw a life preserver to someone who is drowning, sometimes they think that’s not enough, they think you should have jumped in and put the life preserver over their head and dragged them out of the water onto the warm sand, and then done some breathing for them.

18] Self centered people will dictate how you help them while they sit on their couches and complain about how no one will help them.

19] The people you help the most are often the ones who get most angry with you for not helping more.

20] Nothing is without the possibility of humor. Nothing.

21] People will hate you for your laughter. Pity them.

22] People who tell you how religious they are end up having the most to confess.

23] There is no point telling someone they are stupid, more often than not, they are too stupid to understand what you are saying to them.

24] People are different. We are not all the same. To say we are all the same is insulting and oppressive. We should strive to be accepting and respectful of our differences instead of trying to be the same.

25] People are worse than animals. People are capable of inflicting unimaginable horrors upon each other. Never trust a predator. Predators can laugh with you before they rip out your heart.

26] No one gets mad about honest curiosity. Be curious about everything. Ask lots of questions. Feed your brain daily.

27] Don’t be afraid to ask.

28] The same things don’t make everyone happy.

29] You can be more alone with someone than you can ever be while you’re by yourself.

30] Don’t judge yourself by other people’s standards unless they are living up to yours.

31] You are a warrior. Your code is your own. Your only obligations in life are to support yourself, to not be a burden to society, and to not damage others.

32] Do not believe the lies others say about you.

33] There are a large number of people who believe their opinions are more important than yours and they demand you respect them while stomp on yours. Do not be friends with these people; they will suck you dry.

34] Live with your decisions. Accept your failures. Suffer the consequences of your mistakes.

35] Savor simple joys like a child.

36] Don’t be afraid to: fail, laugh, love, be yourself

37] Accept quirks in peoples’ personalities but never trust someone who purposely hurts someone else to their own advantage.

38] do the right thing even when it hurts

39] learn what the right thing is, don’t just assume you know or that what someone else is telling you is true

40] some people not only willfully live in ignorance, but they wallow around in it like squealing pigs mixing up mud with their own piss and shit…these people deserve no sympathy

41] keep laughing

42] not everyone is going to like you. That’s okay, you’re not going to like everyone either. Being civil is a sign of character.

43] You can’t take the choices your friends make personally. You just have to be around to pick up the pieces.

44] never forgive someone who goes out of their way to hurt you or someone you care about.

45] If someone lies to someone they claim to love, there is nothing to stop them from lying to you.

46] If someone believes what they read on the internet, they deserve to be lied to. Feel obligated to help them learn this lesson the hard way.

47] Han Solo shot first

48] Don't climb to the top of the nerd scale.

49] Use coupons and discounts for life, not people

50] Never take someone's trust for granted

51] Never take someone's love for granted

52] Spoil the person who spoils you, but don't be the only one who gives.

53] Strive for consensus rather the compromise

54] Do things you aren't good at. Embrace humility

55] Cyberstalk all you can

56] Gather all the information you can and get all the opinions you can, but make your own decisions.

57] If the river has dried up, it's okay to burn the bridge.

58] Karma listens to your laughter, beware.

59] You have a right to be happy. Don't feel guilty about it.

60] Spiders are evil.

61] Most people make their decisions based on fear. Don't be most people.

62] Wait a week before making any major financial decision. Do not do this on impulse.

63] Pet your dog.

64] Clean the litter box often. Both figuratively and literally.

65] Step away from the Oreos.

66] Try not to hate people who stay skinny and eat twice as much as you.

67] Enjoy life. It ends too quickly.

68] Do not be bullied.

69] Yes!

Trolls in Hell

“Welcome to Hell.” That’s how we were greeted by our hibachi chef on a special night out.

When you’re planning a special night, it might be best to not make the mistake we made.  That mistake: not specifying that by “special night” we didn’t mean “fill it with “special” people. Special people aren’t supposed to make your night special.

First stop, we went to the TransSiberian Orchestra concert. Pretty cool. The second half was definitely better than the first half. And if you have to listen to Christmas music then you need to have it loud and with electric guitars, in my humble opinion. The show itself would have been special and a memory made and all that sappy stuff, but the people…omg, the people. It is my opinion that for a concert like this one, one should dress appropriately.  Country music show wardrobe: who cares. Rock concert: black t-shirts and jeans. Broadway play: dress-up. Orchestra: business clothes.   In appropriate wardrobe choices:  shorts and sandals with black socks, slippers, and velvet lounge pants with flying pigs on them.  Leggings with boots are okay if you are under 350 pounds (even then you should wear underwear of some substance); but, for our purposes we’re going to have to put them in the inappropriate category since there were an abundance of people who didn’t get the memo about the rules on leggings. To be fair, one woman wore leggings which were not too small…they were really loose, with big baggy pockets of over-stretched material at the knees and a dropping crotch.

We were lucky enough to have seats on the end of a row. This allowed me to observe the comings and goings of people while watching the show. One “super-sized” man went back and forth to concessions several times. During the course of the show, he purchased the following:  two hot dogs, 5 sodas, 4 big tubs of popcorn, nachos, and two soft pretzels. Granted the show was three hours long so perhaps he was just trying to keep his blood sugar stable. The number of stains on his t-shirt increased as the night wore on. Another couple came to a row and passed two empty seats to inform another couple that seats 3 and 4 in the row were theirs. An usher became involved. The people in seats 3 and 4 stayed, the offended couple who by-passed two empty seats in the sold out show never returned.  Seats 1 and 2 remained empty for the entire show. A ten year old, accompanied by his mother, passed by 4 times. They never brought anything back. I can only assume these were restroom trips.

Which brings me to eavesdropping on people in the restroom. This Christmas season has taught me that women will say the damnedest things in public restrooms. It’s like they think they’re alone, in their own private space where everything is safe. I’ve been trying to drink lots and lots of water after I read some article about how 95% of Americans are constantly dehydrated. Of course this week I just read an article that someone can die from drinking too much water; so, this trend might not last. 

Anyway, I think the first horrific thing I heard in a quasi-public restroom was at a business holiday party in mid-December. It was held at a resort and there were several holiday parties going on at the same time. I stopped at the restroom near another party. Two women were in there, adjusting their fishnet stockings, holding their skirts up with their chins and revealing thongs that split their woman parts like dental floss strung between two flattened baby monkey heads. They’re having a discussion about how many blow jobs they think they’ll be able to give to the men at the party and talking about separating them from their wives so “get the job done.” The women’s bathroom at the show was no different other than the fact there were more women in there. At the TransSiberian Orchestra concert, the topic of discussion between three women was yeast infections and how one woman thought it was just something that came off a new underwear she bought at WalMart because normally she washes things first but she didn’t this time.  My bathroom trip was spent making awkward eye contact with equally repulsed and uncomfortable people who would have preferred to be spared this discussion.

After the show, we were off to dinner. I won’t even talk about the traffic and people’s driving skills. That comes as a given any longer.  We decided to stop at an Asian Sushi and Steakhouse in Westlake for dinner. We figured it would be fun and memorable.

We get into the restaurant and we’re told that they are cleaning off a table for us and we can wait. Right after we come in, two big families come in with kids.

Some guy comes up and seats one of those families even though we’ve been waiting longer. You know, now I’m predisposed to disliking this people. The hostess returns and is distressed to find out that someone was taken before us…then proceeds to sit us at the hibachi grill with the very people who gleefully butted in front of us.

The tables are these huge double hibachis. One side is completely filled with a large party. Our side has the interloping family grandfather, grandmother, mother (who I thought was a guy) and two kids. Apparently the interlopers have already ordered stuff.  We make our orders and the waiter tells us that all the chefs are busy so it might be a bit.  In the meantime, the chef for the other side of the grill and the big party comes out and we watch their show.

As we’re watching, I notice the woman at the end of the big U-shaped group. She’s older. Her hair has been dyed blonde, but gray roots have ground out about three inches. Her hair is pulled back with a plastic hair band; so all the blonde is at the back and her face is surrounded by gray. She looks unhappy. She looks like she didn’t want to come to this party but she was obligated. She looks like she’s at the end of the group because no one wanted to deal with her.

She’s miserable. She tells the cook he didn’t give her enough fried rice. And then….wait, we need an aside.

When you go to a hibachi restaurant they usually give you some dipping sauces. Usually these are ginger and sauce known as Yum-Yum sauce.  This Yum-Yum sauce is basically mayonnaise, tomato paste, some garlic, a pinch of cayenne pepper, some butter, some sugar.  It sounds horrible when you spell it out, but it actually tastes pretty good. Just not THAT good.

This woman who I have dubbed “The Yum-Yum Troll” pours the dipping sauce over her fried rice. She steals the yum-yum sauce from the kid next to her.  She asks for more.  She eats rice dripping with yum-yum sauce like heavily applied salad dressing.  She sticks her tongue out to capture each drop before she shoves the fork into her mouth. She asks for more. The waiter brings her an entire container of it, just for her.  She pours more on. The rice is gone. She’s still eating yum-yum sauce. Sticking her tongue out before each bite. “It reminds me of a frog catching a fly,” says my companion. Only the fly is made of yum-yum. I wonder if she eats mayo out of the mayo jar without anything else. She looks angry as she licks her fork like some puffy lizard clutching a cane. She starts talking to the interlopers. “That’s my favorite sauce,” she tells them.

Yeah, no kidding.

Finally our chef gets to the table and we find out the interlopers want specialized hibachi. They have demanded: no butter, no oil, no shellfish, no egg, and no salt. Great, I’m at a steakhouse with a table full of vegan wheat germ-drinking naturalists. This explains why the mother looks like a guy. It’s that thin, pale, washed out, I don’t eat any meat or anything non-organic look.

The chef lights things on fire. “Welcome to Hell,” he says.  He clarifies all the specifications of the interlopers. And then he looks at us and says, “What about you?”

“Oh,” I say, “we’ll take everything you got.”

My companion whispers, “With extra butter.”

The chef shares an evil grin with us. We grin and smile at our shellfish, rejoice in our eggs, and we get extra butter. He joked with us. We were old chums now, sharing in the ridiculous of the interlopers and thankful that no one had asked for gluten free hibachi. He rolls his eyes when the Yum-Yum trolls tells him that he seems like a better cook than the one who made her meal because she wasn't happy with him and she was not given as much fried rice as the others.

Knock. Knock. Who’s there? It’s the yum yum troll. She walked by on her way out and eyed our yum yum sauce. It was uncomfortable. It made us feel all yucky and unwashed and vegan-y. But the food…it was Yum Yum. Our night in hell was an adventure. Trolls slain. Interlopers sent off with grandparents who stopped to tell us that they had no idea what their daughter had turned in to with all these demands she made for her food. 

Who's that clip clopping over my hibachi? It's the yum yum troll!  Beware!

Hey, kids, leave them birds alone! You're just another brick tied to the body

I’ve given up television!  The last frontier of my addictions.  I nearly have one week under my belt and I haven’t killed anyone yet.  I suppose this is a good thing, but let’s face it maybe if I just let loose a little the planet would probably be improved. Yes, that’s right, I said it. I’m the one who should be in charge of who lives and dies. This no television thing is fucking empowering, I tell ya.

Someone said to me the other day: “JoAnn, it’s so fascinating, you live such an interesting life. Something unusual happens to you every single day.”  One, it’s not that flipping great. Two, I think it really happens to everyone but I’m just noticing it because my perspective is…outside the norm.

First point of news. There is a hawk killing things in my backyard. I call him Hannibal. Because he kills other birds, eats them, and leaves the parts around for me to find each and every morning. My backyard is the avian version of the killing fields. With all the heads laying around, I could start a business of Godfather like intimidation for the budget conscious, leaving bird heads on door steps. Right now, I’m just throwing them away in the trash.  I keep expecting the FBI to show up after the garbage men tip them off about the body disposal….does this make me an accessory to the crime?

I think the neighbor kids are bigger accessories than I am. I just caught them throwing bread crumbs out, luring potential victims into the hunting grounds.  I called the kids Nazis. I told them they were luring all those pretty song birds into the showers. They ran inside crying. Hey Ezekial and Edith Schmeil, I hope your parents explain to you that life is hard; that’s why your dad works those long ours at the family’s kosher deli. No use crying, you were only following orders. Stop being so sensitive, but don’t be Nazis.

Second point of news, I’ve been letting my hair grow long. This seems to be perplexing to a great many people. I was in the salon the other day, just to get the ends trimmed and the hair “stylist”…I called her a “cutter” and she got offended…asked how long I was going to let it grow.  I told her, “Probably until mid-July when it’s 95 degrees and really humid.”  She said, “No, how long?”  She enunciated the word “long” as if I didn’t understand it.  So I replied.  “Until it gets hot.”  Speaking equally slow.  So, now I’ve got blonde streaks in my hair. I think is spells out something, but I can’t quite see it…

Third point of news.  I broke down and got another tattoo in October.  It’s a butterfly that looks like a watercolor painting. It’s really cool and it covers a scar I’ve had on my leg that I’ve had all my life. Not really what people expected of me, but people tend to think of other people in one dimension, or one mold. Most of us are round; except for those annoying skinny people who can eat as much as they want and never gain any weight.  These are the people I would eliminate first by the way.

 

 

Worked in the yard today. Put out the garden zombies and the wind chimes. Now I’m sitting here watching the neighbor kids pee on each other. This is not a game we played as children. We had kick the can and freeze tag and hide-n-seek, which I always thought was boring. It’s getting cold out, but these kids are out in shorts and tank tops. This is probably so their mother and her new boyfriend can make baby number 8.. I mean it’s been a year and a half since she’s added to the brood. The new boyfriend looks like an awesome catch. I mean he’s so cool he wears his baseball cap backwards with a straight visor…DEAR GOD MAN the proper way to wear a baseball cap is with the visor part bent. That’s the first thing you’re supposed to do when you get a new hat. Bend that rim.  WTF is wrong with you....okay, sorry, about that, my own little rant. The best thing about the new boyfriend is undoubtedly that he has no job so he can devote all his time to Mama Sponge who also has no job. This no job thing makes it easy for them to go “shopping” in the middle of the night.  Apparently that’s when all the sales are happening and how they got this new grill and two new lawn mowers.  Okay, these people first, then the skinny people…then the damn hawk….

Proven Medical Fact: Bicycles Cause Insanity.

It’s been a while since I’ve done a blog entry.  I’ll still get to the Thailand entries, but let me catch you up.

I still have this damn 5k goal.  It’s stupid probably.  My body was not for running made.  But my buddy MC gave me a good suggestion last winter before I left for Thailand.  Maybe I should try a bike.  It would ease the stress on my body, allow me to get my heart rate up and maintain it, and build strength.  Now, I have to admit, I don’t like to give credit to MC for the good advice he often gives me; but, it was good advice.  More better (ha! Cringe grammar Nazis, cringe!) is that I used to ride my bike everywhere.  

When I was 8 years old and visiting Holland where my mother is from, I went with her uncle and biked all over Holland on a bike that the uncle tied blocks to so I could reach the pedals.  When I was in junior high and living in Lima, I used to bike to school every day that I could.  I used to bike to a friend’s house who lived way out by the reservoir.  I remember it took about an hour and a half to get out there.  And back then I was young and fast.

MC was going to help me buy a bike when I got back from Thailand.  Well, we kept trying to get together but our schedules just never meshed.  But after talking to him and my other “biker” friends, I made a list of the things I should ask and look for on a bike.  In the meantime, I took out my old bike a couple of times.  But the bike is too small for my long legs and I wasn’t liking it much.  Still, I made the commitment and purchased a bike online from Dick’s Sporting Goods.

When the bike came, I found out the frame was too big.  Still, I recalled that old bike with the blocks on the pedals when I was 8 and I told myself I could make it work.  Sure that had been a woman’s bike without the bar and this was a men’s bike, but I’m older and wiser now…

Famous last words.

I got the bike home and like any excited new bike owner, I decided to take it for a spin around the block before the approaching rain got here.

I got on the bike easily enough.

I wobbled a little.

The wobble wouldn’t have been a problem, but it seems the handlebars hadn’t been tightened.

So I couldn’t correct said wobble.  I fell.

Hard.

On the concrete.

People in a passing car stopped to ask if they needed to call 9-1-1 while I sat there in the grass and watched the blood run down my leg.  I waved them on and told them to please just forget they’d ever been around.  I got up when I was sure my knee cap wasn’t broken.  The bike was mashed up in the front.  My entire leg was skinned up on one side and bruised on the other.

The next day I returned said bike to Dick’s.  I have to give them kudos, they did everything they were supposed to, to make things right.  They replaced the bike with one of a proper size, they made sure it was put together properly the second time.

I get on the bike.  I ride it around the neighborhood.

This is really nice.  I really like this.

Over the next couple of days, I take it out around the neighborhood again.  Getting comfortable with it.

Then I take it on the road, heading to the park near my house and back.  Each time, I’m going a little farther.

I have had the bike for one whole week when the weekend of hell hits me. 

It starts off innocent with the promise of fun—that’s how all evil things start, with the promise of fun…hell, that’s how my marriage started.  I’m going to meet my editor on the islands.  I decide to take my bike with me and after having lunch with her, I’m going to spend the day riding around and meeting up with some friends who are camping.  First, the close ferry is sold out.  I head 45 minutes across the bridge to Port Clinton to catch the other ferry.  I get it.  I get the bike on.

I am on the island!  Yay!  God, I’m so happy.  I love riding my bike.  Finally an athletic activity that I really really enjoy.  I get on the bike.  I ride.  It sounds funny.  I get off.  I look at it.

The back tire is flat.  Not just a little flat, but no air at all off the rim flat.

I walk the bike to the park.

I lock the bike up.

I meet my editor.

I drink.

I call my camping friend who is the kind of person who would have a bike pump while camping.  He comes to my rescue.  He and his wife teach me how to get the tire back on the rim.  But the tire isn’t holding any air.

I walk back to the ferry.

I drive back home.

One youtube video later, I have the tire off and the inner tube out.  

I go to Dick’s.  They don’t have the right size tube in stock.

I buy a patch.  The patch doesn’t work.

I have had it.  I have reached the end.  Screw it all.  Screw the universe.  I’m buying an Xbox and three dozen packs of Oreo cookies!

The people at Dick’s are really nice and patient.  The bike tech takes the bike and tries to put a patch on it as well.  They order a tube.  They’re going to pay for all this.  Then the manager has an epiphany.  They replace the tire with the good tire of the crashed bike.

I go home.  I think I'm happy.

Tomorrow I will ride.

Right after I mow the lawn.

While mowing the lawn, the stupid welfare brats across the street have apparently left a superball on the sidewalk.  Or maybe they planted it, the fucking bastards.  Afterall, I’m the neighbor who tells them my dog will eat them if they step one foot in my yard.  I’m the one who tells them no when they want to borrow things and suggests that their parents get a job so they can buy things without having to humiliate themselves with begging and stealing.

I, of course, don’t see the ball until after.  This is after all, the weekend from hell.

I roll my ankle.  I hear a pop.  I don’t really fall down.  I stand there for a second.

I can put weight on it.  So, it must not be broken.  I finish the lawn.

But the more I go, the more the ankle hurts.  I opt to go in and put some ice on the ankle before trimming.

Turns out I’m putting ice on it for a week and popping ibuprophen while it continues to swell.  When I walk, it crunches.  I’m wearing work boots to work because I can’t wear tennis shoes.  I certainly can’t ride my bike.  I fell when I had an ankle that could catch me.

Finally I go to the doctor and ask what to do.  Me and my really crappy health insurance prepare.

I get vicodin and xrays.

The xrays show that I did indeed break said ankle.

So, it’s off to the specialist.  Which is probably going to give me a nervous breakdown since I have to pay for this crap.  The irony that the kids across the street get medicaid which I pay for with my tax dollars but I can't pay for my own does not escape me.

And it’s on with a soft cast AND an air cast.  Robo-Jo.  My nephew says I look like a stormtrooper.

I have been ordered off the bike until the cast is off.

The universe wants fat girls to stay fat.  This is BS!  God, I’m so fricking bored.  I can’t drive for long distances because I have to ice the damn thing all the time.  I have to hire someone to mow my lawn.

This bike thing is getting rather expensive.

I have been reduced to watching bad television.  I can’t read on vicodin; I read the same page five times and I still don’t know what it says.  I can’t write on vicodin; it doesn’t make sense when I’m sober.  I can’t work in the yard.  I can’t work in the garden.  I can’t walk the dog or play with her.

And there’s this itch…this itch right by my heel.  Hidden and protected under a hard shell it’s festering and keeping me awake at night.  But at least I have this really cool helmet to wear while I bang my head against the wall.

Wat Pho We Having too Much Fun

***all photos copywrited by Nancy Hesse

It’s pretty cool to see something you’ve seen on TV and in movies and in books and never thought you’d see in person.  The Reclining Buddha statue in Bangkok was one of those things for me.

After the wonderful massage, I got to walk to the temple that held this statue.  Good thing I don’t carry my stress in my legs or I would have needed a wheel chair.

Anyway, here are the useless facts.  Wat Pho is named after a monastery in India where Buddha is believed to have lived.  Prior to the temple’s founding, the site was the center of education for traditional Thai medicine (ha!  This is where the sadists come to learn “massage”).  Statues were created showing yoga positions. Under King Rama III plaques inscribed with medical texts were placed around temple.  Adjacent to the building housing the Reclining Buddha is a small raised garden, the centerpiece being a bodhi tree which is propogated from the original tree in India where Buddha sat while awaiting enlightenment. Wat Pho is one of the largest and oldest wats in Bangkok with more than 1000 Buddha images as well as one of the largest Buddha images.  The Reclining Buddha is 160 feet long and one of the largest Buddha statues in the world.  The temple complex is also regarded as the first public university of Thailand teaching religion, science and literature through its murals and sculptures (Thanks Wikipedia!)

You take off your shoes at the entrance to the temple.  You put them in bags.  In most of the temples you take your shoes off and you go back and find them untouched and unmolested.  There you get a bag to carry them with you because you don’t come out in the same place you go in.  Still, I think in America, there’d be some idiot out there stealing shoes.  There is a sign that says “Beware of Pickpockets” though.  First time I saw anything that resembled that kind of warning.  Welcome to the tourist trap, folks.

You know you always have those friends who say you should avoid the normally touristy things and “immerse yourself in the culture.”  But you don’t go to Hawaii and avoid Pearl Harbor.  You don’t go to Yosemite and avoid “Old Faithful.”  And you don’t go to Thailand and avoid the Reclining Buddha. 

Clearly, I was not alone in this opinion.

It was crowded.

But it was worth it.

To say that the Buddha is immense does not do it justice.  The thing is awe inspiring.  The detail is fascinating.  The face of the Buddha is a soft smile as it depicts the calm passing of the Buddha as he tells his followers not to mourn his passing.  There is little talking amid the crowd.  There’s lots of photo snapping.

Nancy is in heaven, snapping away like a turtle on crack.  For the rest of our trip, I’m going to have to look at her photo of this Buddha’s face, positioned between two large roof supporting poles.  Nancy will say “I just love this picture, it’s so perfectly aligned.  I’m definitely going to get this one enlarged.”  She will say this approximately 5.3 million times over the next ten days.

The bottom of the Buddha’s feet tell the story of the Buddha and it’s depicted in mother of pearl.  No picture in the world can do justice to this.  Sorry.  It glows, it reflects a million colors.  It’s amazing.

As we finish taking pictures and gaping in awe, we meet Miki at the end of the building housing the Reclining Buddha and turn in our shoe bags.  We put our shoes back on.  As I do this, I note that my neck kind of hurts.  I wonder what I could have possibly done.

We drive from Wat Pho to a boat on the river.  It’s a big barge like boat that doesn’t move much.  It’s here that we get our traditional Thai food in buffet form.  Apparently this is where all the tour companies bring their charges.

Nancy and I get a seat and while our food is paid for, drinks are not.  Everywhere in Thailand you pay for drinks.  It’s hot.  They know where they have you.  Pay for the drink or drink your own sweat, you stinky foreigner.  Okay, they’re much nicer as a whole than I am—at least they were to my face.

I try a little bit of everything.  Different fruits, different sweets.  They offer Western food on this buffet.  But have I mentioned it’s hot?  So, not wanting spaghetti with marinara.

The highlight is what Miki recommends.  Thai noodle soup.  That’s what she’s having and that’s what all the Thai guides are having.  That’s what I’m having.

It’s a good soup, a broth with rice noodles and veggies.  You can add fish sauce and hot sauce to it however you like.  I like mine hot.  It’s also got mystery meat in it.  Don’t know what it is.  Could be chicken balls, fish balls, who knows.  I can’t get my soup through it to cut it in half and I’m not sucking in a ball in completely without first knowing where it’s been.

I order extra water too.  Hoarding water has become my primal occupation.

Nancy shows me her picture of the Reclining Buddha.  “I just love this picture,” she says.  “It’s so perfectly aligned.  I just love this picture.” 

I nod.

To be fair, it is a good picture and I am very grateful that Nancy was there to take all the photos to free me up to absorb all the details and sights and smells that I could.

Lunch smells like cloves and curry and spice.

The other tourists are pigging out on salad and spaghetti.  None of them are at the noodle soup bar, the guy serving up the broth – you pick the bowl with the noodles and veggies in it, then they add the steaming hot broth to cook them—is standing alone after he finishes serving the guides.

After lunch, I try the desserts.  This is the first place I discover khanom krok, the little sweet coconut pancakes that they serve all over Thailand on the streets and everywhere.  Holy crap, I hate coconut, but I frickin’ love these things.  They’re fried on the outside and creamy pudding stuff in the middle.  I even came home and looked up a recipe for them.  I’m going to make them soon!

Finished with lunch, Miki takes us to the other end of the boat and we step out onto a rickety rotting dock.  

“Time for boat trip,” she tells us.

Across the uneasy river, a narrow longboat starts up, billowing black smoke from its engine as the wiry, hard-looking captain pulls the lawnmower engine to a start.  The motor has a long pole at the other end, and a small propeller at the end.  He maneuvers his boat to the dock.

The top edge of the boat is about an inch wide and about a half foot below the edge of the dock.  There’s nothing to hold on to when jumping down into it except the canvas awning.

“You step down and then you sit down right away,” Miki advises.  “I’ll do it first so you can see.

Uh yeah….what I see is my impending drowning death in a sewage polluted river filled with toxic fish and bobbing discarded condoms and milk cartons.

 (to be continued in next blog.) 

Thai Massages: They're Dandy, I ain't Lying

It will feel good, they said.  It will be awesome, they said.  They are trained to find where you keep your stress and they will help work it out, they said.  It will get all that stiffness and kinks from the long airplane flight out of your body, they said.  Thai massages are world famous, they said.

According to our guide, Thai massage is one of the ancient gifts to the Thai people and the king provides schools and training to the Thai people so that they can perform this craft.

So, after a morning spent going through temples and the Grand Palace in Bangkok, I was heading off to get a Thai massage.  I should mention that it was my second day in Thailand, it was 90 degrees already and to go through the Bangkok temples and the palace one was required to dress in long pants and with sleeves. Back home it was 20 degrees and snowing.  I was not adjusted to the temperature yet and was sweating like a hairy biker during Bike Week.  And the pants I had were special moisture wicking pants that I’d bought specifically for the trip—unfortunately, I’d bought them six months earlier and they were too big.  They were designed to roll up into capris, but they rolled up into regular pants and the thighs of the pants had enough extra space that I could have put both legs in one side and still had extra room.  So I was kind of uncomfortable.

Driving through traffic from the Grand Palace through streets lined with buses that had hauled crowds and crowds of Chinese through the narrow streets of Bangkok—hey happy Chinese New Year, guess what, there are a LOT of Chinese people on the planet.  Anyway, our guide tells us that the drive is about 45 minutes, depending on traffic.

As we turn a corner, we encounter our first traffic hang-up.  There’s a guy who stopped in the middle of the street, dropped trou and was dropping a deuce right there on the median line of the street.  There was a street dog standing on the sidewalk staring with a “What the hell” look on his face.  The traffic just flows around him.  There’s no road rage in Bangkok despite the traffic.  The traffic flows around the pooper and keep going.

The guide doesn’t quite know how to react.  She’s amused and she clearly doesn’t want this to be the impression of her country to the foreigners in the back seat of the car—and she sees that I have seen what we just passed.  She laughs it off.  Miki is a great guide, full of energy, excited about her country and proud of it and excited to share it with people who want to know more.  “Well,” she says laughing, “I guess now you can say you’ve seen everything in Bangkok!”

I laugh with her and chug water while Nancy, blissfully unaware, snaps pictures of the palace through the car window, having missed the “squat and drop” completely.  I was blissfully unaware that this was an omen, a cosmic commentary on my near future.

Soon I see the signs for Wat Pho.  Wat Pho is the home of the famous reclining Buddha statue and it’s on my list of one of the things I really really want to see.  Like most of the wats in Thailand that we visited—there are thousands of wats and temples and places to worship everywhere you go and it would take a lifetime probably to visit them all—Wat Pho is more of a complex than a single building.  Each wat seems to have at least few buildings with shrines and Buddha statues, housing for the monks, and a school for the monks.

So we are dropped off and go through the line that says “foreigners.”  All Thai people get into the temples for free.  Seems kind of right to me, somehow actually.  If you want to take pictures and gawk at our religious icons, then pay us for it.  If you want to worship and drown yourself in your cultural and spiritual history, then by all means, come on in. 

Anyway, we walk in and our guide points out the restrooms.  So, yeah, we’ve been drinking lots of water all day and we’re about to get a massage.  Restrooms are in order.

I go in.  At first glance it’s not unlike the restrooms at roadside rest stops or national parks or campgrounds.  A line of metal doored stalls.  The concrete floors are wet.  The place smells vaguely of stale pee in the heat.  I go into an empty stall.  The seat is soaking wet.

There is no toilet paper.

There’s a sprayer on the wall.

What in the hell is that sprayer for?  Cleaning?  The restroom actually doesn’t look that dirty except for the smell.

Not only is there no toilet paper, there was never any toilet paper.

There’s no empty roll.

There’s no toilet paper dispenser niche or rack on the stall wall.

It’s a metal box with a wet floor, a wet toilet and a kitchen sprayer on the flipping wall in a holder.

I have to pee.

No moving between stalls.

I pee.

I do what guys do – the wiggle and shake.

I wash my hands.

I go outside to wait.

Nancy emerges a few moments later.

She looks at me as the guide starts to lead us to the place where we’ll get our massages.

“Did you notice there was no toilet paper?” she asks.

I nod.

“Thank goodness I had some Kleenex with me.”

I nod.

“Not just in my stall.  There was no toilet paper in ANY stall,” she says, seeming to want a response.

I nod again.

I’m not talking about this.  (call this foreshadowing for future blogs)

We go to a building.  It’s air conditioned.  It’s filled with beds and Thai massage therapists walking on top of Western tourists.  The “therapists” seem to be enjoying themselves.  Nancy is handed off to some cute little perky girl.  They hand me off to the only Thai person in the country who is taller than me.  The guy grins at me.  His eyes sparkle.  I want to believe he’s amused by the fear in my eyes, but in retrospect, I’m pretty sure he’s a sadist.

The room is long and narrow.  There are four double sized mattresses across the room, two on each side of a center aisle.  It’s shaded from the bright harsh light outside, that combined with the air conditioning might have been comforting if it weren’t for all the people lying on those beds being twisted into pretzels by Thai “professionals.”  I take off my shoes, I’m instructed to put all my stuff into a small box at the head of the mattress that has been designated as mine.

Nancy has the spot across the aisle.  There’s a woman on the mattress next to mine.  Her eyes are squeezed shut; her mouth is twisted in a grimace.

My first impression of this stranger:  wimp.  I’m judgmental like that sometimes.

Sadly, I’m in the land that karma calls home.

The first thing he does is stretch my hamstrings, by kneeling on them.  Oh, they’d cramp up if it weren’t for the unrelenting pressure.  Then the soles of my feet are gouged with knuckles.  My arms are stretched behind my back.  My knees are twisted until they touch the back of my head.

“Are you okay?” the guy asks.

I look over at Nancy.  Through the tears welling up in my eyes, I see her eyes are closed and there’s a blissful look on her face.  “I’m fine,” I say.

Oh and our guide wasn’t kidding about them being trained to find the stress spot.  A while back, I had a bulging disc in my neck.  It presses on a nerve and makes my right hand go numb.  Back then I went through 12 weeks of traction and therapy and drugs to get it right again.  Now, I have exercises to do when my hand starts to go numb.  And it was, the 24 hours on the plane did it.

But I didn’t need to do my exercises, because my wonderful massage therapist decided to apply traction with his hands—or he was trying to pop my head off like we used to pop off the flowers of dandelions when we were kids.  He had really strong hands.  With his knuckles on my shoulders and his thumbs on the base of my skull, he tried to decapitate me.

Ever have something hurt so bad that you really couldn’t make a sound?

Yeah.

It was like that.

He didn’t let up. 

Someone came by and said something to him in Thai.  He replied. 

I don’t speak Thai, but I’m pretty sure he said, “Momma had a baby and its head popped OFF!”

Finally it was over.

He walked away.

Someone handed me a mineral water.

The Thai drink a lot of mineral water.  Apparently this is allows them to lower the pressure on the toilet kitchen sprayer.  (more foreshadowing).

We walk out. 

Miki is waiting.  “How was it?” she asked.

Nancy speaks first.  “It was wonderful!  I feel so good now.”

“I think I’m bruised!”

Miki laughed.  “Did it hurt?”

“Yes!”

She nodded.  “They won’t let me back to get a Thai massage.  I scream.”

Long story short.  I had bruises.  My shoulders and the base of my skull was tender for three more days.  Every time I turned my head I was aware of the tender spots.

Okay, my bulging disc was back in place.

I think that guy was proud of himself for damaging a fat, aging foreigner.  He grinned too much.  Never trust a man who grins too much.  Never trust an Asian who’s taller than you and has hands that look like they might be able to hold a basketball without much effort.

And start screaming before you can’t make a sound.

Cabbages & Condoms, Stinky Feet, and Heat

One pre-trip discovery was a restaurant called Cabbages and Condoms.  It was established to help prevent the spread of AIDS and find alternatives for poor rural Thai families so they don’t have children they can’t pay for and have to sell to the brothels in Thailand.  http://www.cabbagesandcondoms.com/project.php

Sure, it’s a touristy spot, but let’s face it, we were tourists and we wanted to see as many things as we could.  We set out about 2 pm from the hotel.  We figured we make it a late lunch early dinner and we really wanted to be back in the hotel by dark.  Our guide assured us that we were in a very safe area of Bangkok, but we also couldn’t read the signs or really ask for directions; so we wanted to be safe.

We left the lobby of the hotel—the doorman runs to open the door for us, I should note that everyone in Thailand seems happy and they all seem to work hard for very little pay.  I’m sure they talked about us behind our back.  (or hell, maybe even right in front of us), but you never saw anyone copping an attitude or rolling their eyes.  I often think the language of a country reflects that country’s mentality.  To the ear, Thai sounds soft and musical and almost gentle.  I took Japanese in college and I found that to be a poetic language, but compared to Thai is sounds clipped and harsh.

Anyway, we turn left.  The sidewalks are dirty and uneven.  The storefronts lining the street show off goods and money changers.  Sometimes scooters hop the curb and move around you to get in front of the unbelievable Bangkok traffic.  Everyone is driving between each other, squeezing in, pulling around, pushing forward.  And yet, the horns only honk as warnings rather than in anger and road rage doesn’t have a place here.  Everyone wants to go and no one wants to hit anyone.  There are a few stoplights but for the most part it’s anything goes and lanes are just vague suggestions.

While we walk, we pass a skinny homeless man dressed only in a tattered pair of shirts and an open button-down dress shirt.  He’s barefoot and his seat is under a sick looking tree right next to a pile of dog poop which seems to be melting in the unrelenting heat.  There are bikes and scooters parked on the sidewalks too.

At the corner of the two major streets, we’re right by the stairs that go up to the sky train and to the bridges for pedestrians to cross the streets.  Miki, our guide, made sure she emphasized that we had to go over the streets.  “Traffic not stop,” she warned.

We’d gone up and over to get to Citibank in the morning, but now we turned left and went looking for Soi 12.  Miki told us that the small streets off the main drag are called “soi”.  Streets is really a misnomer, because they’re alleys stuffed full of more storefronts and businesses with barely enough room for two cars to squeeze through.  There are no sidewalks on these places, you just walk on the edge of the road and trust that people won’t mow you down as they rush to their destinations.  To be fair, this isn’t real surprising in a city that traces its roots back to the 15^th century—the streets are wide enough for water buffalo.

Anyway, on the way to Soi 12, we pass an Indian restaurant, a KFC (Nancy stops to take a picture), and an Italian restaurant.  In addition, we pass various street food vendors and vendors just starting to set up.

Soi 12 is an alley like the others.  There’s a sign with the number 12 on it.  That’s what Miki told us to look for.  The road is broken up with a shallow trench on one side, presumably for when it rains.  There are bottles and plastic jugs and paper laying all over the street.  We walk on the street, single file heading down into the claustrophobic bowels of the city.  Scooters and cars rush by.  We pass others walking too.

Finally we get to a sign that says “Cabbages & Condoms Restaurant.”

Turning into a small break in a concrete wall, there’s a green walkway that leads to the restaurant.  There’s a store on one side, a table with people selling stuff on the other.  Then we get to the open air restaurant.  A chubby, older woman asks if we want to sit outside or inside.

The outside patio has misting fans and lots of greenery.  But it’s hot and I’m weary of mosquitoes. So, we opt for inside and air conditioned.  In Thailand air conditioned means a nice balmy 25 degrees Celsius which is 77 degrees Fahrenheit.  Tiger Woods, made out of condoms, doesn’t seem to have a problem with the heat.  Neither does the Santa or Captain Condom who are all standing around in their latex splendor to welcome us to our dining experience.

The lights are decorated with condoms.  There are signs on the wall with anatomically endowed stick figures in various positions urging one to use condoms for each.  There are decorated condoms everywhere.

The menu is about ten pages long, but every dish has pictures which is pretty cool.  We ask for Diet Coke and get “Coke Light” which is Coke with Splenda. 

  There are no free waters or free refills in Thailand, everything comes in a can or a bottle.  Anyway, I immediately focus on chicken satay…chicken on a stick with peanut sauce. 

Nancy orders lemongrass chicken and I order honey chicken.  And for dessert, I order fried bananas.  The waitress comes back and tells me there’s no more honey chicken.  So, I order basil chicken.  A nice spicy dish.

A western woman comes into the restaurant by herself and sits at a table near us.  She orders a martini, a dry martini and proceeds to tell a group of people exactly how she wants it made.  “This much vermouth.  It’s really easy.” She said.  They make it and she sends it back four times.  “I can come back and make it,” she tells them.

As she’s reading the menu, she notices something.

It’s about four inches long.

“Bug! Bug! Bug!” the woman screams.  Pointing. 

The staff rushes around to see what the commotion is.

The cockroach skitters away from the noise.

I look at Nancy.

Nancy looks at me.

“It’s an outdoor restaurant in the middle of the tropics,” Nancy says.

“The place looks clean,” I say.

She nods.

There’s a silent understanding that we will not speak of the four inch long cockroach that ran across the floor.  Clearly, the staff wasn’t too concerned about it and seemed more disturbed by the woman and her never perfect martini.

The food comes.  It’s good.  The basil chicken actually tastes a lot like the same dish at Jo Wok here in Sandusky.  And clearly, I do not like warm bananas.

There were no roaches in the food.

We discovered laid back service at its finest.  Patience is something you need in Thailand whether you are dealing with the traffic or the service in a restaurant.  Nothing is hurried.  The Thai are a people who pay close attention to details and take their time.  At Cabbages & Condoms, you get a condom instead of a mint with your check. 

We stopped to do some shopping on the way out and took pictures with the condom figures.  Then decided to walk through a street market on the way back.

There are these markets everywhere in Thailand.  It’s like one giant flea market.  We passed booths selling everything.  The most notable of this was durian.  Durian is a fruit that is notorious for its horrible smell.  It’s sold throughout Asia and it’s banned from taxis and hotels and everything else.  Watching Andrew Zimmern try it and make a face just doesn’t tell you how this stuff smells.  It’s like a combination of sour milk and stinky feet.  Coconuts tapped with a straw for drinking coconut water are everywhere.  Silk, fake silk, knickknacks, Buddha carvings, and whatever else you can imagine is sold from these stalls.  You see the women carrying huge bundles of stuff on bamboo poles to stock their stalls.  Stray dogs run around everywhere and cats are skinny and hanging out in every nook.

The streets are crowded and busy until way into the night.  The smells of daytime give way to smells of food and charcoal and exhaust.  It cools down to a more bearable 85 degrees when the sun goes down.

Notable details:  The hotel smells of curry and the street food as if everyone is cooking in their rooms.  But really it’s the sweat.  After a while, you sweat that curry out through your pores.  The basil chicken spice burns your lips and makes it seem not so hot outside.  Why is everyone wearing long sleeves and pants? No one wears shorts or short-sleeved shirts.  They shiver in the 77 degree air conditioning.

pictures provided by my partner in crime.