Text Tale

When you find yourself stuck with a dog-reactive dog, you cheer a text message exchange like the one we had this morning. John took Reno to the dog park, where we're working on his encounters with other dogs, which includes random use of the trusty ol' citronella collar.

John: He ran up to a dog bigger than him and sniffed its butt!!!

Me: YAY!!! That's amazing!!

Quip o' the Week

Back story: I drink a swig of apple cider vinegar five to ten minutes before each meal, as a digestive aid (part of the ongoing SIBO journey). I drank it diluted for a while, but I like the taste of vinegar in general, and I got used to ACV pretty quickly, so now I just drink it straight out of the Bragg's bottle.

Last week, I grabbed the bottle, took a big swig, and put it back in the cabinet above the stove, while I was cooking dinner for John and his sister.

My sister-in-law goes, "Whoa, did you just drink that straight?"

I say, "Yeah," and start to explain.

She cuts me off with an admiring and disbelieving head shake. "It's good to be a gansta."

Apologies. Promises.

Funny thing... writing about getting sick? Got me sick, I think! I know I owe you the story - and the end of it all, as we're in the home stretch, only about 5 more posts after that! But thanks for your patience just a little longer. I'll get it wrapped up soon, I promise.

In the meantime, the way you show a promise in Tanzania? Not with a hand up, like we might, as if swearing on a Bible, nor with a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die gesture like we did as children.

Instead, you draw your index finger across your throat, an exact imitation of the gangster-movie threat gesture, but faster - and then end it with a snap as your hand flies out past your neck, and back down to your side. THAT caught our attention! And it's a helluva way to say you promise!

Just Pictures.

Oh, we'll get to the sickness story! But a few photos I forgot to post first. Below, with Emmanuel in the safari jeep - only 18! But so mature and thoughtful, and how I hope he does get to South Africa to train to be a chef, and make his dreams come true.

Where there's no copyright, there's Obama everywhere. Yes we can chew strawberry gum, my friends! 

Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Women carrying the stuff of life - water, food, and firewood.

And an amazing baobab:

July 29, A Pommern Monday. Part 4.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

The feeling of being in the right place, at the right time, lasts all day. There were two more working events. First, a clothes-sizing and second, the latrine again. The clothes-sizing was for the 13 orphans at the other primary school (not the one near the mission house, where our fellow volunteers have been working).

I have visceral trouble, coming from the land of 25-cent BINS at Goodwill and corner sidewalk FREE BOXes and even piles of clothes strewn near homeless encampments, with this first task. How can I understand the importance of two pieces of clothing per child? We're told many of these orphans have one single outfit. These orphans live with grandparents or aunts, and a shirt might be 1,000Tsh, Edward says. It might take a month to save that up, after buying food and cooking oil and fuel and matches and salt.

So Meggie, Marie and I slapdash our way through the kid's clothes Marie tossed in a suitcase back in New York (and some very small adult clothes chipped in from the rest of us).

We hold things up to each child, lined up by size, erring on the side of "too big" so they can grow into it. I'm able to give one of the big girls, maybe 12 or 13, a training bra - a thin, grey, shelf bra, a castoff of the girls in our volunteer family, and as much as she'll let herself express emotion, her eyes light up at it.

This is also the nicer part of Pommern, I'm shocked to discover. The school grounds are really quite pretty, the homes are neater, all the grounds are kept up, fences are more common. The school was built by the Roman Catholics, and there's a big difference between it (below, in the background) and the buildings built by Global Volunteers. Interesting to find out we're in the poorer section of a poor village. And I resist making jokes about things Catholics build versus things Lutherans build.

(After giving away clothes:)

For some reason, I like the picture below of us talking after giving away the clothes; it shows the intensity of conversation among volunteers the whole two weeks. Experiencing, analyzing, discussing, stretching - a lot. Beyond comfort. 

And I wrap up the day's work with a couple hours back on the latrine - and how much progress we've made! I also find out that Thomas and Moses call me The Commander. They're busted by a bilingual person who tells me this at the construction site, and I turn to them in mock insult, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Then I laugh and they laugh, and Moses says, "Commander njema!" But our bilingual companion says, "Oh no, not true! When you walked up they said, 'Oh no! The Commander is back and now we'll die!" And here I thought I was working slow and matching their pace. Apparently, as my pal at home Mikey says, I've been mushing their butts uphill! 

As we're wrapping up, as the mortar is running out, around 4 PM, I start to feel - a little  - off. 

I walk slowly back to the mission house alone. I hope it's that I didn't drink very much today, or that I pounded my lunch of peanut-butter-sauce-with-local-cabbage over noodles (yes, it was that weird). Maybe it's the smell of the latrine, especially pungent today. 

I come home. I pound some water. I take a half-bag-shower and then absolutely MUST lie down. I'll feel better if I just rest through this terrible weighted feeling.

I get up a couple hours later for dinner, which I don't really want to do. I take only a slice of papaya - papaya!  Good for the digestion, too, right?! And I heat up a cup of the powdered chicken noodle soup I brought from home. The packing list recommended soup packets for "homesick tastebuds" and though I was sure that would never be me, I said to John, "If someone gets sick, wouldn't it be nice to give them chicken noodle soup? I'm bringing four of these."

I have to leave dinner early and lie down.

And at 7 PM, it begins. Truly violent vomiting and top-of-the-line diarrhea.

English is a hard language.

I now present to you the three best lines so far, from men who speak beautiful and accented English, but who struggle with the difficulty of our complex language and idioms (and it is a crazy language)...

First, shouted across the mission house yard by Edward to the man who only semi-committed to provide the night's lecture, "Pastor Bennett! Come here! I must screw you for tonight!"

We later learned he meant "nail you down" and admittedly, both are tool metaphors - but we did explain kindly that one is sexual and one is not.

Second, when asked how old Mamatony's children are now, he replies, "Big! Big, big, big. But not so very big." (This turned out to mean about 16 and 18 years old.)

Third, when asked how often they see warthog mamas with babies, Emmanuel confidently replies, "Yes, a lot. But also, often not too much."

July 27: Night in Ruaha.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

As an aside, we'll be the only people who leave Africa fatter than when we arrived. Margarine, peanut butter, honey, jam - all this to go with our bananas, white bread, sugared oatmeal. Our lunch in Ruaha today? A boiled potato, a roasted plantain, a pretzel bread roll, 3 carrot sticks and 1.5 ounces of chicken (hey, I'm two years valiantly attempting Weight Watchers - I can spot 1.5 ounces of chicken across the room!).

Dinner featured rice and spaghetti. We're happy to have enough to eat; almost everyone around doesn't. But blessedly having enough doesn't equal having anything healthy; we still only have what there is - and I understand "protein starved society" now.

Most of us honestly notice tighter pants already, and I laugh tonight that we'll look Tanzanian women - nearly all of whom are larger than the men, softer, rounder, plump, bellied. It is a compliment to the man who provides for her - so we'll fit right in! 

First world problem in the third world today: Sure would be nice to have that stargazer app up and running on my phone so we could ID some Southern Hemisphere stars!

Panhandlin'

Sunny weekday afternoon, I've got my headphones in, walking with purpose along a busy sidewalk in the middle of proper downtown Portland. A small gaggle of young, homeless men sit on the sidewalk, nearly on the curb and well out of the officeworkers' way, with a couple cardboard signs in front of them, their black markers out to improve witty panhandling sayings they'll use on tourists all weekend.

One is standing over the rest, observing, and he looks up to see me coming. I set my jaw and keep walking, as he says, "Miss, do you happen to have -" and then he stops. Before I've passed him. He looks down, and now I am passing him by, totally ignoring him, my usual approach.

As I move past him, he says with a genuine shrug, "You know what, never mind. I want you to have a nice day!" It's not aggressive, it's nice and sounds totally natural; he may even be saying it to his buddies, rather than to me.

I don't keep my tunes turned up very loud when I'm walking; I want to hear buses and sirens and possible emergencies that might need my help, so I start to laugh, and turn around, but am still walking. I catch his eye and smile and chuckle. I look forward again and keep walking, and hear him say, "Yeah! There it is! A great smile!"

Usually it will.

Prepare for a month more of undecided obsession about the hair Chop. I have an appointment one month from today with a edgy, hipster, artistic stylist; will we go for it!?

In the meantime, last night there was much support around the Memorial Day s'mores snack for embracing a big dramatic change, and the safety mantra was repeated yet again: "Remember, it's just hair, and it will grow back. It will grow back. It will grow back."

Though an honest point was then made, to much laughter: the man in the room with ever-slowly-thinning hair said, "To be fair, that is not always true."

Discovery

You know those cookies they serve on Delta flights? Biscoff? Two oval biscuits wrapped in red cellophane - a sort of spicy gingerbread graham cracker? I love them. I really love them. I have always loved them since my first Delta flight at age 7, and even today my dear sweet husband, who only flies Delta for business, brings them home for me from his travels.

Well, while there are loads of things I can - and need to - tell you about the new job, including the five million things I've learned about video transcoding and the overwhelming pace and drive that everyone there has - I must first tell you that Biscoff comes AS A SPREAD. IN A JAR. At sweet, spreadable room temperature.

It is the peanut butter version of Biscoff cookies. And it sits about 25 feet from me, in the common kitchen (1 of 2), that is stocked every week with tons of free food (both are), for all staff members.

I basically have an endless supply of Biscoff. This is quite the discovery. And quite the motivator - hello, 3 PM Treat!

True Story

Here I am, downtown, headed back to my car, on a recent Sunday - a famous Portland "sunbreak" in progress - and so the rays are reflecting energetically off the wet pavement, the people are smiling from their Sunday benedictions. It's only mid-morning so we have the day ahead of us to be useful, productive, goal-oriented. I wait patiently for the crosswalk signal. There's a man about my age on the other side, also waiting patiently. He's Indian-American, perfectly normal and well-groomed*, and he smiles at me, and looks away. I smile and look away. We wait for the walk signal. (*I point this out because hey, downtown Portland on a Sunday morning? There are plenty of unstable or homeless or still-drunk or plain ol' crazy people out and about. This is just a neighborly-seeming, regular dude.)

Just as we pass each other in the crosswalk he flings his arms wide and gestures loosely from my head to my toes, and says, "Beautiful! Such a beautiful woman!" and keeps walking, and doesn't look back. It burst forth from him; he says it in a way that he just HAD to tell me he thought I was beautiful. It couldn't remain unsaid, and he wanted nothing for it - nothing but to say it and move along with his day.

Do I think I'm particularly beautiful, especially worth such a joyous outburst? No, that's not why I'm sharing this with you, of course. I'm sharing it because I wonder what could happen this week if I'm compelled to share a loud, brash, big, silly compliment with someone - especially someone I don't know well, or at all - and what if I go ahead and do it? Will you do it with me, and tell me about it? Maybe it'll motivate me out of my straight-laced box and I'll be ready when I see someone do something nice, dance something beautifully, wear something crazy-unique, say something really funny in a public place. I'll be ready to shout out to them that they are wonderful! And then I'll share about it here, too.

ESP, baby.

Remember when I discovered I could read John's mind a couple weeks ago? (Here.)

Turns out, he can read mine too!

For context: this is a guy who has never heard of The Real World. Who couldn't pick Taylor Swift out of a line-up. Who wouldn't know TMZ from Perez Hilton and doesn't want to. Pop culture, as defined by the masses, is not for him - though he has his own popular culture, to be sure.

I wanted to tell him about a funny Zumba dance we're doing that makes us laugh, and dance hard, to be silly and sweaty and fantastic. But the moment I said, "Hey babe, have you seen that YouTube of that one song?" the lyrics fell out of my head and I couldn't remember how to sing the song or describe the video to him.

We were walking down a flight of stairs, and we got to the bottom, in silence, and he then goes, "Is it that one that goes, 'girl look at that body'?"

YES! It is! (Important to note: the video is super lame, and our Zumba dance is way better.)

But the best thing is that He Can Read My Mind. With his one piece of pop culture! Cool!

Here's a tip...

If you wear your workout pants backwards, don't be embarrassed. Don't call it an accident. Just enjoy the fact that the waistband rests comfortably above your belly roll instead of comfortably over your behind! A win win!

Play It Again, Sam

So the Groupon that led me to the hip-hop class a few posts down led me, tonight, in even deeper. It led me into a Tease N Tone class. Known by some as stripperobics. Imagine Pussycat Dolls style moves - mostly MTV dancin' with a tiny bit of burlesque thrown in.

The class was 30 minutes of cardio - tough cardio - followed by 30 minutes of learning less than a minute of a choreographed dance, 8-count by 8-count, just like in the dance classes you took as a kid.

As we counted in, over and over, on the intro of the hip-hop song, the singer announced herself as the beats ramped up. "Nicki. Minaj." in a bad-ass voice, followed by the announcement of her guest singer, "JUUUUUUUUSTIIIIIIIN!"

Three, four, five times. As we learned each new chunk of counts, 4 or 8, I was thinking, when is Justin Timberlake going to start singing? Nicki keeps announcing him.

Oops. You guessed it.

Justin Bieber.

Trick or Treat!

Pretend you are 9 again. This is my own meme...

Best candy overall? Reese's peanut butter cup.

Best candy for school lunch? Sugar Daddy - it lasts the longest.

Worst candy? Raisins.

Candy your brother is dumb enough to trade for? Smarties.

Candy Dad steals, but you don't mind? Almond Joy.

Candy Dad steals, but you do mind? Butterfinger.

Best candy-gathering bag? Pillow case, of course!

You get an apple. You do what with it? Believe it or not, never happened.

Best book about Halloween? Blubber by Judy Blume, of course. It taught me the word flenser and made me realize how quickly the tides can change when teasing is concerned. It also made me endless jealous that there were places in the world with dried, crunchy leaves on Halloween, rather than drifts of snow.

Candy Mom steals? Trick question; she never stole any - she's Mom!

Date upon which Mom throws out Halloween candy if not all eaten? The weekend before Thanksgiving.


And yes, I was a kid who meted out my own candy, to myself, a couple pieces in my lunchbox each day, to make it last and last and last... and be at risk for parental theft... and then I eventually tired of it - or was left with nothing but suboptimal Mr. Goodbars and Three Musketeers and Raisinets and plain ol' raisins by Thanksgiving, dried out in a crumb-covered pillowcase on the pantry shelf. Happy Halloween!

It's (d)Evolved to This

My day job, increasingly, causes me to be less and less interested in political conversations. Now that we are a bit over one month out from Election Day 2012, this is what passes for a political conversation in my house:

Me: But at least I get to see Gloria Steinem speak! I think everyone should see her once. It's something I'm glad to check off the life list.

John: How come?

Me: Because she is one of the mothers of feminism! She was there! She, like, helped start it!

John: I think feminism is a failed experiment. Like California.

*cue laughter*

*cue gratitude for a witty joke rather than any attempt at a serious discussion of 

feminist history in the U.S. over the last 40 years*

Don't try to game the system.

Sure, at 30, you'd think I would already know this. But this year, after thinking about it for almost twenty years, I decided to try laser hair removal. My specific combination of Latvian and black Irish heritage, plus a unique endocrine system to lil ol' me, has equaled a lifetime of anxiety and worry about all the kinds of body hair that women might worry about. If they worry about it, if Jezebel writes about it, I struggle with it. Sure, I've gotten used to it - to a degree - and become more accepting of it - to a degree - but in the mid-1990s when laser hair removal went commercial, I said, someday I will try that!

It took the invention of Groupon deals AND a generous spouse to finally take the leap.

And I thought to myself, well, I better start somewhere that doesn't hurt, doesn't show, and doesn't feel too private. Underarms it is.

But there are two ways you can't game the system, my friends. First, the woman will tell you it feels like a rubber band snapping against your skin. She is right. If that rubber band were on fucking FIRE. And second, don't pick based on perceived pain when you have no context for it. At treatment number 2 - of 6! - the lovely woman told me that she turns up the laser each treatment a bit, and that underarms are, "probably the most painful area to treat." Oh, how I lose. System games ME.

(OK - not true. I don't lose. Because P.S... this stuff WORKS, people. At least on me. After 2 treatments I am already stunned at the effects and look forward to a lifetime of hair-killin' treatments all over the place that have begun NOW!)

A dash o' the 'belle

I don't read Jezebel like I used to; I'm not as much of a Jezebelle as I used to be, due to more limited time online each day and week for pure personal surfing.


But this essay is worth clicking over there for, and made me cheer, for great concepts and killer wording, like: "for a society that produces ads and photospreads so airbrushed that they're technically cartoon" and "for men who believe that a woman is only as valuable as she is interesting to their dicks" and "once again, we'd be well-served to emulate Hillary's "give zero fucks" example."


Yeah!!

More Truth in Advertising

You might remember the useful tip at the federal gym, all honesty it was about how we are going to get in shape, as regular people and not super-human will-power machines.

I noticed another sign today, in the elevator. It's above the emergency phone, and it contains instructions on what to do if the elevator breaks, but the perfect part of it is the first line, which reads, in all caps:

TRY NOT TO PANIC!

So supportive! So true! Try not to... even though we know you will, and we would too if we were there with you, because who wouldn't!?!... just try. And even if you do, that's OK, just move on to step two and we'll come to get ya out. Comforting!

1? 1mil?

I've either written this post a million times, or I've never managed to get it published... but it's a simple, powerful observation and if I haven't written it yet, shame on me.

Time spent with positive influences (ahem, people) in your life is time that flies, time that energizes, time that is well spent and makes you feel like you can come home and tackle that to-do list (clean all the things, even!) and have energy to spare - to share - to make a NEW list and start on THAT!

So the next time you come home from lunch, dinner, happy hour, coffee, or conversation and find yourself drained, needing a nap, wanting to turn your phone off... think about it. Think about how you could be coming home from the kind of conversation that is truly no better time spent, no relationship more worth nurturing. And invite one of those people to hang out - it'll do ya good.

So is this an Easter post? Sure, why not! There's a metaphor for rebirth in there somewhere, you can find it.

Happy Easter!