I Like Big Books

This is ridiculous. I mean, really funny. The "I'll greet her with some holy kissin" part kills me. And the flirting over the flannel boards. In my high school days, I think I shamelessly knew the Sir-Mix-a-Lot original word for word.

I am happy to report that:
1. I have a cast-iron stomach and can handle the doxy-bicycles of my new Malaria preventative.
2. I have packed one bag out of three. And it is three days 'till I move. I am so ahead of schedule, it is insane.
3. History has told me that I freeze up if I do not have someone to help me pack unto the bitter end. So, two nice ladies are coming over to help me keep packing. Hooray, Heather and Lydia. Happy days.

Post Script: EKGs and Pterodactyls

Upon further review, I now realize that it was a naive oversight to use the idea of hearts palpitating and prophylactics in the same blog-title. I hope that the tiny corner of blogdom that walks across this "Hello" mat did not find me crude or racy. It was wholly unintended. (Cheers, Brian, for being the first to point it out in the commentary.)

I must say, there is a longer, sassier story attached to those malaria prophylactics, and how I first acquired them from Walmart. The pharmacist had given me expired pills, initially. This was not good. I happened to notice the very-fine print on the package before I got on the plane for Africa. And so, very gently (but clearly) I helped the pharmacist understand what a risk this could have been for me, and for Walmart. (There was very little argument.) I walked out with the $80 pack of medicine for free, plus some more cash. I love confrontation!

Needless to say, we're no longer using the Walmart pharmacy. We switched over to the small-town joint that's closed on Sundays. I like that a lot better. I've just secured some new malarial pterodactyls (a'la "doxy-bicycles") from the new pharmacy, and will begin using them tonight.

Mama says that doxycycline is very strong and could make me vomit. So tonight we will see if I've inherited my Father's "cast-iron" stomach, or my Mama's "kinder, gentler" belly.

(Surprised girl by Incinerator)

Goodbye, Hello, Uh-Oh

I said "goodbye" to the Bordens yesterday in Arusha. They waved me off on my 5-hour shuttle to Nairobi. I cried. And then I napped. I think those two things go well together.

I had two hours to kill at the airport so I ordered a veggie burger. A strange sort of curried-Kenyan version of a patty arrived, so I baptized it in remarkably gelatinous light red ketchup. The ketchup squeezie-bottle had a loose top, so when I squeezed, I emptied the entire bottle of mystery-sauce onto my plate.

Though I was sharing my table for four with three strangers, no one else seemed to think it was as funny as I did. They didn't even give my fresh ketchup pond a second glance. The only mzungu in the place was making a saucy-scene, but nobody was noticing. Maybe this sort of thing happens often. I felt like I was in a bad after-school special staged in an African diner.

After taking the red-eye flight to London, I arrived here in Virginia Water with Brooke and Tate and Baby Asher. (And Kerry, too.) I really enjoy these friends from Young Life UK.

I like that tired "goodbyes" are met with some sort of a fresh "hello." What would we do without rhythm? Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Baby Asher is making me grin a lot. He has clearly perfected the "uh oh" face. I think it would be a good exercise if we all worked on that face. We'd be more prepared to laugh at ourselves when we baptize our plates in accidental ketchup ponds.

I leave for Baltimore tomorrow. Then I'll be back in the States for awhile, but heading out to Pasadena soon. It'll be nice to hug my family again.

Familiar Streets, Salinger on Family

Portugal is familiar as ever. And I do mean familial-er. The uneven stone streets of this land reach out and greet me as a sister because I, too, am uneven. And we will keep on walking, dear.

I might start including scraps from my scrappy journal, as I write them. My tone betrays my own voice as I tend to immediately mimic the writers that I read, just as teenage girls begin to talk like their favorite friends, accidentally.

6 Aug 07 - 4:45 pm - Cascais, Portugal

I have just finished Salinger's Franny and Zooey, and am terribly glad that for perhaps the first time in my life I happened to arrive at a meeting point ten minutes earlier than planned. I'm leaning my somewhat tired back against the old marble wall at the Cascais Station. The cool breeze keeps washing away the station-smell of urine in the crevices of the steps.

Jasmin will soon be here to greet me. I can't wait to hug her. It's been a year.

On the walk to Cascais from Monte Estoril I did my civic duty and helped at least three German tourists. I also avoided a nice Brazilian lady who was trying to sell me something with my mostly true, "I'm sorry but I don't speak Portuguese." She later diverted a helpless English speaking tourist to me. I'm not sure if I helped the lady find a bus to Cabo do Roca, but I gave it a shot.

[end.]

I am so glad that sweet Jesus urged me to plant Franny and Zooey in my carry-on as I viciously packed for six weeks of travel. I read it straight through on the two aeroplanes, and then finished it, quite triumphantly, while leaning against the train station wall in old Cascais. I've read the book about three times since college, and it still makes me giggle aloud at every third page. The interplay of the Glass family is a riot, and Salinger's narration absolutely kills me. Incidentally, I think that English and Theater majors would find the conversation perfectly self-deprecating to their studies. Artists do tend to take themselves far too seriously. And the Glass family certainly does.

The plot weaves around the spiritual crisis of young Franny Glass. Muffled within a host of superfluous cigarettes and god-damns, Salinger still paints a more honest picture of the real Jesus than might be found in many a church-house. That's one of the reasons I like him so much.

I found this excellent NY Times book review by John Updike from 1961. I disagree with the guy on many points, but his words are far more erudite than mine about why Salinger is a genius:

"...Salinger's conviction that our inner lives greatly matter peculiarly qualifies him to sing of an America where, for most of us, there seems little to do but to feel.

...His fiction, in its rather grim bravado, its humor, its morbidity, its wry but persistent hopefulness, matches the shape and tint of present American life."
-John Updike, NY Times (Sept 17, 1961)

Everybody Mango!

I am currently back in Baltimore. I got my three tiny cavities filled, quite painlessly. Among many other things, I am pond-fishing through my iTunas and putting the finishing touches on a Hey you! It's summer! homemade CD mix extravaganza of indie goodness. In honor of Portuguese summers, it shall be entitled Everybody Mango!

If you would like to Mango, I would be happy to send you such a Compact Disc with my handwriting on it. But you might want to indicate as such, and be sure that I have your postal address.

Thank you. And now, dance.

I'm from Barcelona

This is a song from a new band from Sweden. Their band name is, "I'm from Barcelona." They make me happy.



(Muito Obrigada, Elise.)

Three's Company

This one's for Agent B, who commented that I looked like "that chick from Three's Company." Oh, Janet! I am just barely old enough to remember that 70s show, though I never understood the punchlines. Come and knock on our door...


(HT: Andrew Jones and his classic photo-shopping antics.)

Your Mom

(File under: not-boring e-cards: Hipster Cards)