Never Thought It Would Happen To Me

Quick Update/Note: I'm so happy to report that my niece continues to recover and in doing so has gotten her smile and sense of humor back...and so it seems have I. Our family has finally reclaimed the levity lost by the seriousness of Haleigh's illness and what better way to celebrate that than another self-depreciating blog post about the fumbles and follies of a Southern girl in San Francisco? Thanks again to everyone for your well wishes and support. ~Caroline

There are many things that happen to a girl on the road to becoming "citified."  Like assimilating to a foreign country, it is important to learn the customs and rules of your new surroundings.  In Britain, you  learn to drive on the opposite side of the street.  In San Francisco, you learn that green does not automatically mean "go," rather scan the crosswalk for pedestrians and THEN you may go (and may I just vent for a moment here?  San Franciscans, I realize that it is your God-given, er...state-mandated right to be in said crosswalk. Could you not act as if you are on an evening stroll down Pier 39...giddy up, peeps!  Do you know how hard it is to make a left turn in this city?!)  Sometimes less overt changes happen - issues of Mother Jones are pushed through our mail slot alongside Southern Living Magazine, the word "barbeque" is used less as a noun and more as a verb, at the first sign of a cold, you email your herbalist instead of making an appointment at the Minute Clinic...but this....this I never thought would happen to me:

Secret is out in favor of Soap Walla's All-natural deodorant cream.

When I first moved here, I marveled at how San Franciscans embrace their "natural oils and odeurs."  Not unlike the French, but somehow just not as glamourous.  I even hatched a new "necessity is the mother of invention" idea.  You know those air-curtain-thingys that some stores have above their entrance doors?  Well, what if we fashioned them to spray bursts of deodorant along with the cool air?  It could be kind of a dual purpose "free deodorant dispensary" and "service to the olfactory-sensitive public" all in one. If you've ever ridden BART on a hot San Francisco day, I can almost guarantee that you would identify with the latter population.  When those doors close and those "natural odors" putrid B.O. invades your nostrils, you will know I speak the truth...and once you are in the tuna can that is a BART car, there is obviously no escape. Ick. (Playing devil's advocate here for a moment, I'd like to point out that Southern women have a tendency to layer on the perfume...which perhaps not quite as bad, a sensory invasion in itself.)

So back to the point...after reading an article about the presence of aluminum and other icky things found in anti-antiperspirants, I turned to my old friend Google to help me search reviews of natural alternatives.  Not surprisingly, most of the reviews were pretty bad.  I had almost resigned myself to the fact that the heavy metals would have to remain as my underarm accessories, until I found a blog by a girl who had tried 7 of the leading hippy-dippy alternatives, ranking each by her own set of methodical criteria.  This totally resonated with the data nerd (and budding hippie?) in me.  (see also: I am a sucker for infomercials and a sales person's dream. Although she did not benefit directly from this, her sales pitch of sorts had similar consequences for my AMEX)  Furthering my journey down Assimilation Lane, I was soon the proud new owner of a vat of Soapwalla All-Natural Deodorant Creme.

After my next shower, I dug my fingertips into the foreign consistency and lathered it on.  It smelled pretty darn good.  I remained optimistic - this Faux-B-O  repellent might actually work! Day 1 was a success!  I even recruited Lew as a second guinea pig for my trails.  If this stuff could stand up to man-stank, then I knew I could easily convert and never look back!  Day 2, both guineas remained stench free!  However, on the third day of Stench-mas, my true love gave to me, a reality check via sweaty Hanes Tee.  This delicate deodorant frosting didn't stand a chance against 18 holes of golf and a 74 degree San Francisco "heat wave."  Turns out, it would fail the she-male as well.  About a half-hour into a cardio workout, I felt like the Peanuts character with the cloud of dirt wafting from him...except in my cartoon version, the wafts would be a pea-green color to represent the stink emanating from my pits. Gross.  While not a total bust (if the weather is chilly and my plans de jour include mostly sedentary activity, I see no reason to "aluminate" my armpits), but not exactly a score either.  On to the next conquest...

Should I go "tout naturel"with brows as well?

In Defense of Ig'nant

 

Ok, so I’m a little tired of everyone picking on the South (even though I will say the jackadoodle-doo that pulled the stunt with Jim Cantore didn’t do us any favors in the image department).  I agree that, as a whole, we could have done a little better planning for "Snowmaggedon I" and now its bitchier sequel "Snowpocalypse - Fo'Real This Time."  May I humbly point out that we just aren’t equipped to handle the powdery stuff?   It doesn’t make sense to invest in the equipment it takes to properly clear roads when its use is only necessary every 5+ years (which brings to mind a personal lesson learned – the beaucoup bucks one shelled out for a fancy Jack Lalane juicer was not the best use of funds for the “Detoxifying Juice Cleanse” a certain someone has done…well...once in 5 years and reason #305 why I shouldn't be allowed to watch infomercials).  Instead of seeing a bunch of ignorant, bumbling simpletons, I saw something beautiful.  We Southern people banded together and truly had each other’s backs.  In Atlanta, people took to the interstate and offered food, rides, and lodging to those who were stuck or out of gas. Someone started a Facebook group that, within hours, had 20,000 members designed to match those who were in need with those who could offer assistance. People were freely posting their addresses and what mile markers were closest in order to open their homes to perfect strangers so they wouldn’t have to sleep in their freezing-cold cars. Mother Theresa put it beautifully when she said, “If we have no peace, it’s because we’ve forgotten that we belong to each other.” My darling fellow Southerners just demonstrated that sprit in this beautiful outpouring of love and made me so very proud to be among them.  

As many of you know, my niece Haleigh has been in the hospital for almost 7 weeks now. Through this very difficult time, I have seen such generosity and sincere kindness.  Almost immediately, friends and family organized a schedule to make sure meals were delivered to the house (‘cause that’s another thing about Southerners….ain’t nobody going hungry on our watch!).   One of Haleigh’s nurses went to Target to buy a few pairs of those footed PJ’s with the zipper thinking that if we put it on backwards, it might help HJ to keep her Central Line and GButton in place. She did that with her own money, on her own time, with her own love for this little kid on her rotation. Talking to a woman here at the hospital in Charlotte, we heard of a mama who has been with her baby so long in ICU that all she had were summer sandals.  What did that woman do? She went to the store and bought that mama a pair of shoes and had the class to leave them at the nurses’ station as to not embarrass the woman with a face-to-face handout. So yes, there are times when I shake my head at the latest "drunk man falling off his tractor" news story coming out of Anals (sic) of Dixie, but these beautiful expressions of selflessness and “we belong to each other-ness” make this girl proud to be among this tribe of ig’nant Southerners.

Damn You, Norman Rockwell



Alright, Norm, thanks for setting unrealistic expectations.

 

So, it appears I am officially a "grown-up."  For the first time in my 30-*ahem* years, I am hosting Thanksgiving.  A meal that comes around once a year....the meal that people look forward to and have such nostalgia about. The centerpiece of the meal is one of the most dreaded culinary feats.  The damn turkey wants to be dry the moment you take it out of the plastic.  Just look at those happy faces...clearly Mrs. Butterball has had years to perfect her bird. I get one shot at it. (Plus a wise man once told me, "you don't practice for company" - meaning work the kinks out of your recipe before your dinner party. My dad is a very smart man.)  If only clicking my heels together and calling out, "Auntie Jane, Auntie Jane!" could summon the Thanksgiving matriarch in my family to bestow her magic to my kitchen! There's no place like home, there's no place like home!

I was seriously having anxiety about this whole turkey thing.  While laying in bed reading the latest Food & Wine mag (and hoping that turkey prep knowledge would permeate my hands via osmosis), the most genius thought comes to my brain...Greenburg Turkey.  A few years back, daddy read about this company out of Texas that has been smoking turkeys since the 1940's. Oprah even had them as one of her "Favorite Things." A bird endorsed by Oprah...you know it's good!  But with an endorsement from the goddess herself quickly sets into motion the economic principle of "supply and demand." (They even have a name for it called, "The Oprah Effect," really, they do.) That's a huge win for Mr. Greenberg, but not so great for us plebeians who have to plan far ahead to score one of these delicious birds.

Just as soon as my elated brain begins to process this thought, the realization that they are likely sold out by now begins to steal my joy. I reach for cell phone on nightstand and do a quick Google check...and what to my wondering eyes did appear? It's a Thanksgiving MIRACLE, Charlie Brown! There are turkeys! Must order immediately! And so, that's what I did...at 10:30pm last Friday eve...

I sprang from my bed to procure my AMEX, knowing I wanted MY turn to come next, 
One click of the mouse, a few taps on the keys, soon gave me to know this T-day would surely be a breeze!  
An animated turkey, I'll call him Tom, came across the screen at Gobble, Gobble DOT com. 
I heard him exclaim as he strutted his tail, don't worry Caro, this year you can't fail!

and then visions of smoked turkeys danced in my head...

Mad About Plaid

Wow. Two months since the last post. Time flies when you're having fun grad school classes suck up every ounce of brain capacity not allocated to basic survival measures (you know...like food, shelter, and trips to procure "sanity juice" from BevMo). It's been a busy few months. My DVR also tells me so. The menacing "percent full" keeps increasing. Hubsy starts to get antsy if the percentage goes above 85%. Things begin to get deleted. Important societal dramas such as "I Dream of NENE - The Wedding" lost. (Btw...let the record show that I am putting in my request to come back as NeNe Leakes in my next life. The perfect mix of southern sass and New York brawn - all wrapped up in a divalicious black woman.)  Anyhoo...let's just say I've gotten behind on a few things. Here's one I just need to check off my list...

Dear Project Runway contestants,
 The "modern southern woman" does NOT wear head-to-toe plaid.  (nor does she shop for clothes at Belk, but since you are obviously accepting advertising dollars from whatever source comes your way (Yoplait frozen yogurt challenge. Really?!), I'm just going to overlook this one for now.

I'm not quite sure where this vicious stereotype began, but let's please set the record straight. Plaid = cowboy. Cowboy does NOT = southern woman. I realize that the South is probably not on your "fashion capitals of the world" list of places to see, but a quick Google search of "Garden and Gun" magazine would have at least been a start. We like classic, clean style...and monograms...we monogram EVERYTHING! In a nutshell, I'd have to say the "modern southern woman's" style reflects her roots.  A hint of tradition mixed with a few bold statements...think A-line dress plus metallic cheetah print heel.

There are, however, a few exceptions to this rule: 
 (1) Burberry plaid is ALWAYS sheik.
(2) A checkered plaid button-down can be sharp when paired correctly.
(3) At Alabama tailgating events, you will see southern women sporting generous amounts of houndstooth, while not plaid per se, perhaps its (much lovelier) distant 3rd cousin.
(4) In a brief instance of being caught in a bad "plaid fad" a few years ago, a certain southern girl may have momentarily lost her way and donned a tablecloth-esque number. As you can see from Exhibit A. this was a poor choice and shall forever be filed among the recesses of poor fashion choices alongside stonewashed jeans and floral Laura Ashley rompers.

Let us never speak of this again, k?

Blame It On the Barbicide

One strategy for passing time on a long road trip is to take the roads less traveled. If time allows, I like to forgo part of the interstate and take the scenic route in search of hidden gems.  You never know what Route 66-esque filling station or fun antique store you may find. On the 8 hour road trip from Charleston to Tampa a few weeks back, we decided to do just that. It was in a little speed trap town of Starke, FL that we discovered this...

While not exactly a charming portal to a bygone era, a treasure in its own right:

Hairy Business in Starke, FL

~Are you ready to count the cliches? Inspired by the crack minds featured above, I just couldn't help myself but to rise descend to their level. Consider yourselves warned.~

Not only are the creative masterminds at "Hairy Business" able to come up with such a imaginative title for their salon, but check out the innovative hair fashions created within.  A spider web buzz cut - Paris and Milan, you'd better be on notice, this truly is cutting edge fashion! Annnnd...this isn't the only business that's hairy in Starke, for a mere $15, your locks can be entrusted to Audrey and her "Flair for Hair." Is there an end to the shear genius happening in this small town?!  If these two places are a little too shee-shee for you, there's always the "Econo Cut Styles and Nails" down on Brownlee Street, fiercely undercutting the competition at $6 a do. Hey, we all have to shave costs somewhere.

We started to notice a theme among these salon think tanks. We even made a game out of it - an "I Spy: Hair Salon Edition" of sorts. After all, hair "arteests" have different aspirations and inspirations for their work. That absolutely should be reflected in one's salon name, right?!

And why should hair be taken so seriously?! After all, it will always grow back - not to worry! Save the stresses; entrust your tresses to the jovial jokesters at:

Cutt'n Up in Stake, FL                                               Just Teasin' in Summerville, SC

Then you have the mane battle between "Mane Secret" in Lugoff, SC and "Mane Attraction" in Lake Lure, NC.  Though, from the looks of it, the Lugoff location is a pretty popular spot given they have such plush seating outside. I can only guess this is to accommodate the long wait times this in-demand House of Hair must experience. Apparently, their Secret is out.

Mane Secret, Family Hair Care in Lugoff, SC                              Mane Attraction, Lake Lure, NC

A few notches further along the Bible Belt, you will find the "Hidden Hair" Salon in Old Fort, North Carolina which sounds more like a place for full blown medical procedures, if you ask me.

Then there's the Hair Color Xperts in Alparetta, GA. Given that these virtuosos can't seem to spell properly, I think I'd listen to the ominous message at the bottom of their website and "skip" this place all together. After they make an appointment with a Mrs. Merriam-Webster, then maybe we'll talk.

Who knew there were so many poets disguising themselves behind those swanky black smocks? I may be splitting hairs here, but I do hope you all save some of that sharpness for the scissors.

Song, Song of the South

Well, friends, I'm finally back after doing some field research on the East Coast. I'm starting to once again get adjusted to long sleeves, foggy days, and a nearer to 0% blood alcohol level. I have so much to share from my time back home, but since I currently have a song craving for it, I will start here:

Discovered this little gem on the drive back down from the small mountain town of Lake Lure, NC. Radio stations are scarce (as is forward-thinking, it appears) and are pretty much limited to the Bible Beat or Country. If nothing else, country music almost always promises a good story. Think of it as a redneck book on tape, if you will. In "The Boys 'Round Here," Blake Shelton hits on the Good Ol' Boy trifecta. He mentions (1) the man upstairs (2) 4-wheel drive (3) beer while achieving bonus points for the addition of chewing tubacca' and dirt...and let's not leave out the girls. According to Blake, they "all deserve a whistle" for "shakin' that sugar, sweet as Dixie Crystal." Apparently chivalry is not dead. whew. 

Backwoods legit

Do Not Talk to Strangers

Growing up Southern, there is a certain code of manners that is pretty much instilled from birth (I promise this is not another diatribe on my mother's mandate for "etiquette classes" at the age of 8. Though I did just recall licking my butter knife at the graduation luncheon at the Omni hotel. My teacher, complete with perfectly coiffed bun, pursed lips, and breathy Charlestonian dialect, shunned me by saying, " Miss Cah-ro-line, we dohhn't lick our silva-wahaya." Perhaps in my own subconscious way, it was my version of a protest.)  We learn to say "yes ma'am" and "no sir" about the time we utter our first words. It becomes automatic and of second-nature. I remember around the age of 10, new neighbors from New York moved in. Being the polite little Southern girl I was raised to be, I'd dutifully answer Mrs. Diane with a "yes ma'am" or "no ma'am." She recoiled with a laugh, "ugh...please don't call me 'mam!'  It makes me feel like an old woman!" Ut oh. This was going to be a problem. Try undoing 10 years of programming. Not easy.

Another line item on the Southerner's Code of Conduct is to offer a friendly hello or at bare minimum flash a kind smile as you make eye-contact with passersby. It's just how we do. Nothing makes a person stand out as a foreigner more than to inadvertently snub a Southerner exhibiting this innate behavior. Unaware that this Code does not necessarily follow one across the Mason-Dixon line, I found myself quickly becoming the "odd girl" when I'd take Ollie for a walk around the block. I slipped into my usual routine of smiling or saying hello when we passed someone. I did not always receive the same reaction back (and noted to self that reaction varied depending on if recipient was of the male vs. female variety). Telling Lewis about this, he warned me that exhibiting this behavior here meant something ENTIRELY different than it means in the motherland. Lone blonde preppy girl + smile + hello = signal that you'd like to be asked out for a artisanal draft beer at the latest hipster bar.  Not at all my intention. Armed with this information on my new culture, I vowed to be stoic and practice my new "citified persona." It was HARD. For the first few weeks, I felt so rude! It went against everything in my nature, but after a month or so of practice, I'm happy to report, that I was able to successfully walk past someone without the need to react. (perhaps this should be considered my second graduation from etiquette school - West Coast edition.) Success.

This behavior has become the new normal for me - so much so, that I'd almost forgotten that it was ever a struggle...until a few weeks ago when my mother came for a visit. Being the original Southern Belle whom I credit for many of my social graces, my mother was the new stranger in a strange land. She said hello to everybody. Not so much an issue when Lewis was with us, but when we took off on our little road trip to wine country, we definitely dealt with some fallout.  Picture the below scene:

See that vacant table adjacent to us? Now picture a 50-something single man approaching. Primal Southern Belle instinct - smile from my mother + friendly hello. DUNNN DUNNN DUHHHHNNNNN. ALERT! WRONG SIGNAL FIRED! We spent the next 30 minutes trying to send opposite signal: Please let us enjoy ourselves sans your banter about sea otters. At least our suddenly cool demeanor lessened his interest to intermittent at best. Channeling my husband's words of wisdom, mom and I had a little chat about how she can't say hello to everybody.  Unfortunately, she couldn't help herself and the very next night inadvertently beckoned a very drunk man in a suit. He quickly offered to buy us drinks at the bar while simultaneously talking about how much he misses his wife when he is away on these business trips. He proceeded to come back by our patio table each trip he went to smoke, each time getting more and more brazen. Sorry sir, but one of these things is not like the other. Shoo fly, don't bother us...and how 'bout go call that wife you profess such love for? And dear, sweet mama, please zip those Southern lips, bless your heart!

Crimes of a Cat Lady

In an attempt to combat the onslaught of cat hair in our house and on our clothes, we made an appointment to get Gracie shaved. When I lived back in SC, I used to do this every summer to help her stay cool and to prevent her from shedding her winter coat all over my furniture. Since moving to San Francisco, I felt I didn't need to do this since the temperatures are pretty consistently cool. Gracie did not feel she should return the favor and has continued the yearly tradition of shedding her coat. Please allow me to quantify this for you...this is not a gradual process. We're talking clumps of hair left Hansel-and-Gretl style throughout our house. Try to give some kitten affection and you're left holding an unwanted dander bomb.  We were going through lint rollers faster than a roll of toilet paper. It was gross. Now add to this Oliver's need for year-round molting and the poor Oreck (or my nervous system) didn't stand a chance. Something had to be done. We had to shave the cat. After researching places that will "accept" cats to their grooming service, we wait the  - yes - THREE WEEKS  - for the appointment date. Seventy-five dollars and several kilos of hair later, this is what we got:

 I have to admit that it took us a full day and a half not to laugh every time this rodent-esque creature slinked in to the room.  Even the poor cat seemed embarrassed and would retreat under the bed every chance she got. But...wow whatta' difference. It was so nice to be able to enjoy our pet once again.  I was not prepared for the side effect of guilt that would come with this decision. The poor cat was cold. My moment of shame caused me to drive directly to PetSmart for a kitty sweater. I was about to be schooled on all things Vestment du' Pet. Did you know that there are "designers" that fashion Pet Wear? Nope, me either. Martha Stewart, Disney, and Bret Michaels to name a few. Also, it follows the two main fashion season - Spring and Fall.  Seriously?  As you can imagine, there were slim pickin's this time of year.  Most of what was there would require duct tape and a straight jacket to keep on the poor, tortured animal. Not gonna happen. I head to the clearance section in hopes of something promising among the dregs. I concede to the red Minnie Mouse "sweatshirt" dangling sadly from its plastic hanger. Once home, I wrangle the cat into her second skin and marvel at the cuteness staring back at me.  My guilt has been appeased...for now.

Function over fashion...or perhaps a little of both.

Martha Stewart's Spring Line -  I'm not so sure it's a "good thing."

Brain Blockade

So it's been a shameful two months since I've last posted. It seems I've been afflicted with the sometimes long-term malady known as duh duh duhnnnnn....writer's block. I've had every intention of sharing my adventures in Thailand, but each time I set my mind to do it...nothin'. I guess it's a bit overwhelming trying to compile so many experiences into one entry. My English 101 professor once told me, "The cure for writer's block is  - just write. Don't worry about if it's terrible, just write." Seems rather obvious, but let's give it a try...

This time around, I knew a little more of what to expect. Unlike my little brother who gets his jollies from jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, diving with unpredictable sea life, and scaling sheer rock faces, I do not thrive on challenging situations. Much to the dismay of my hippie-at-heart husband, I like to plan.  For EV-ER-Ything. So this time, I found myself much more at ease.  It did not surprise me when the "toilet" was a bucket in the ground or when the power and "fan of mercy" ceased at 11pm. Cold showers - got it...I knew exactly what to expect. What I did not expect was to fall even more deeply in love with Thailand.

Here's a snippet from my journal entry when we first arrived:

December 14-16 Bangkok - New Siam Riverside

Almost missed connection in Taipei due to late departure from SFO.  Cute Thai student studying "drawing" in San Francisco told us there were no spots left on the next morning's flight so we might be in for a major headache.  Fortunately, they held the plane for us and we made it aboard.  Unfortunately, we weren't able to be seated in the "extra leg room" seats that we'd arranged to be in [this was following our 14 hour leg from SFO-Taipei, now entering another 4.5 hours to Bangkok]. Our hearts and my knees were sad.

Our heads touched the pillows at New Siam around 4 a.m.  We had been sleeping on and off on the plane so we awoke around 8am congratulating ourselves that we were now on Thai time.  Nice buffet breakfast on the river.  Runny eggs=bonus.  Took off for a little shopping on Khao San Road.  Bought unfriendly flip-flops that gnawed away at my toes (was cursing myself for ignoring cardinal rule of traveling - make sure, if nothing else, you have comfortable shoes.  The song, "Stupid Girl" by Garbage played in my brain. Early dinner then off to bed.  

I woke up with the numbers 2:48 staring at me. Ugh. It's such a helpless feeling when the Sand Man is not your friend.  I laid there for another hour then finally conceded. I grabbed the iPad and made myself a fort under the sheets to shield Lew from the light coming off the screen.  Thankfully Lew woke up early and we went to breakfast. Had an easy day since we had big plans to meet with Jamie and Sa that evening.  When Lew asked the desk clerk how long it would take to get to the restaurant, she told him, "with traffic, about an hour."  In a B-list romantic comedy, this little detail would serve to foreshadow the rest of the evening.

Hailed a cab outside.  The cab driver negotiated 200 Baht and we piled in. Traveled about 40 feet before the road became a parking lot. Roughly 45 minutes later, the cab pulls over and asks to see the address again.  Not a good sign.  We call Sa and have her talk to driver in Thai.  10 minute exchange = bad news.  There wasn't a consensus on where in Bangkok we were. I'd just spotted a hotel with "Millenium" (our intended destination) on it.  We decided to bail out of the cab (turns out we'd been "bangkok-ed" as the fare should have been around 80 Baht). Lew tossed 100 Baht at the driver and we fled.  It was the most like Bonnie and Clyde I've ever felt.  I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to find an irate Thai man chasing after us.  We turned the corner optimistic that we were close.  Turns out it was the wrong Millineum hotel. Curse word!  At this point I am at risk of total toe amputation from walking too much in cheap flip-flops.  Stuuuuupid girrrrrrrurrrrrllllll.  We are beyond frustrated and starving so we commit to going to the very next promising restaurant we see. The Rib Room.  Ahhhh.  Enter fancy hotel.  Press button for "Rib Room." Ascend to very top floor.  Continue to ignore blatant signs and warning bells that we are headed to a significantly fancy resutrant.  Get seated. Open menu (guilded with gold pages) and narrowly avert heart failures at sight of prices. Steak - $100. Heart palpation.  At this point, Lew remembers he didn't bring the AMEX and retreats to the bathroom to count our money to avoid embarrassing incident when check arrives.  3,500 Baht. This should have been enough for several DAYS worth of meals, but here it bought us each an appetizer and one drink.  Our waiter happened to be from California and took pity on us sending out fun sherbert dessert for us to try.  He also told us we were still about 45 minutes from our intended destination. ughhhhhh.  Mustered energy and hailed a cab (of course Paranoid Patty was convinced that we'd run in to cabbie we had "stiffed" and insisted on doing a visual scan of the inside of the cab before agreeing to get in.)  Although we were exhausted, we had a fabulous time with Grant, Kate, Jamie and Sa and were so glad we pushed ourselves to continue on. I will say though, that this "bangkok-ed" pair can't wait to be on Koh Phayam.

Being back in the States, jet lag hit my like a smack in the face. I had such a hard time getting back to reality. I found myself oddly down for the first few weeks. I missed Thailand or more specifically the little island of Phayam. The outlook there is one of gratitude and appreciation. They aim to never be wasteful. They use everything they have for as many uses as they can. While we strive for those things here, it seems like the overall agenda is to make you feel as though you are lacking. You must buy things. You need that new car; those jeans you are wearing are SO last season.  There is so much excess, but it's easy to feel like we never have enough. Outwardly, Koh Phayam may look meager and simple with its lean-to restaurants and bare-footed citizens, but to me, it is Utopia. In my eyes, they are the ones that have it all figured out.

The end justifies the means...finally celebrating with our friends in Bangkok

My Utopia

Return to Paradise

Getting ready for our upcoming trip, I pulled out my journal from the last time we visited Thailand.  Being that my OCD is out in full force while traveling (and the weeks leading up to it.  my poor husband), I kept a list in the back of all the things that I should and should not bring back next time and wanted to reference it.  I started to re-read through the pages and came across this entry that summarizes so many of the reasons that Thailand truly is paradise.

Saturday, February 18, 2011  Bamboo Bungalows

I just had one of the most delightful experiences of my life.  My neck has still not been completely right since my nights with the killer pillow at Payam Cottage so I wanted to make an appointment for a message.  I was really hoping that Lew and I could do one together, but there was only one lady working today.  I was a little apprehensive about navigating the language barrier all by myself, but figured there probably wouldn't be much conversing involved.  I arrived while she was finishing with another young blonde.  She tried to talk to me about "my husband (he was the one who made the appointment)"  and "time" and something else that I just wasn't understanding.  Fortunately the blonde looked at me and asked, "German or English?" signalling that she was about to translate for me.  I was so grateful. Afterwards I asked her if she spoke Thai and she chuckled and said no, but she'd just spent the last hour communicating.  Oh, I thought, how cute!  She'd used this time to practice her Thai!  Convinced that the awkward part would soon be over, I plopped my farang [Thai word for "foreigner"] feet into the foot bath and awaited bliss.

After a brief discussion over Thai vs. Oil massage, the massage lady started talking in broken segments about "oil," "skin," "Thai massage," "no good."  I was so confused and a little uncomfortable.  She kept apologizing that her "English no good," and although I was sure she wouldn't understand, I told her that I was in her country - I should be speaking Thai.  It is I that feels badly."  We continued to bump along through broken bits of conversation and I have to admit I was at first a little bit upset that so much chatter had permeated my relaxation.  She asked me if I liked my holiday so far.  I answered that I loved Thailand and the Thai people very much.  "They are so happy and smile a lot.  So nice," I said.  She answered with a wai and "Kap koon Ka" [Thank you] and proceeded to say something that will stick with me, I hope, forever.  "The Thai people, they work, work, work, not have a lot of money, but happy."  So true.  What a lesson.  She went on to ask me questions and tell me about her son at university.  She also told me how beautiful farang are when they first come here (because they are pale) then points to her skin and says "mai di [bad]" signaling the transformation to dark tan is ugly.  There were times I didn't understand her and she didn't understand me and that was ok.  As the hour progressed, the massage became secondary to me; getting a glimpse into this amazing woman's life and wisdom was the bigger treat.  She kept thanking me for the English lesson (and even gave me an extra face massage for talking to her) but it was she that had taught me so much.  We are all just people.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Happiness is yours for the taking.  Challenges whether cultural, language-based or otherwise are always worthwhile.  Oh, and I really love Thailand. 

FOLLOW-UP ENTRY A FEW DAYS LATER:

I feel at peace about making this place an integral part of our future.  This experience has also taught me how much one "needs" and how much is truly "enough."  I've actually come to tolerate my cold showers and am on the brink of finding them positively invigorating.  Thai napkins are a tease and although very grateful to have it, their version of toilet paper is not far behind.  I'm also learning that a little bit of dirt is ok.  Sharing the same spoon with others is a form of fellowship.  Every cube of ice and drop of clean water is precious and should never be wasted. ALWAYS apply bug spray before sunset. Never wear your sunglasses in the ocean even when it is extremely calm.  It will always show you who is boss and does not return things it takes (including your  most favorite pair of faux Ray-Bans). It is possible to live without power after 11pm - you do not spontaneously combust contrary to my initial belief.  While the people here are very soft-spoken, the wildlife is not.  Choir practice for Geckos is usually in full swing around 1:38 a.m.

My Cup (and my plate) Runneth Over

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.  That may be true, it very much applies to this she-man as well. When preparing for our trip home for the holidays, I found myself daydreaming about the things I was going to eat and, of course, the people I will share it with.  Many family members asked for "requests" (so sweet!).  Some, already primed from years past, just threw it out there - it went something like this:

"Hi Uncle Milan, Lewis and I are coming in town and want to make sure we see you while we're home."

"Great!  Come Tuesday around 5.  Let me know if you want smoked shrimp dip."

He Read. My. Mind.

When I worked in radio, most of the artists had what they call a "rider" where they would send their requests...ahem...demands to the radio station ahead of time.  These were to be filled prior to their arrival to the studio or concert location.  One of my favorites was a Britney Spears request that "no plastic cutlery of any kind is permitted in the dressing room."  I wonder if she'd shudder to know that the silverware we provided came out of the $0.50 bin at the nearby thrift store. I ended up inheriting the "Britney Spears flatware" after that.  In fact, I think it is still floating around here somewhere. Perhaps her diva-ness was contagious and I caught it as a result of using said silverware. Anyways, I digress...it started to occur to me just how much I associate meals with people.  When in "Germantown", I always request Kristin's cucumber and tomato salad with that magic marinade that she blesses it with, Bville - Mama Susan's Chicken and Dumplins,' Dad and Ann - grilled steaks (or smoked lamb chops if I'm feeling like a total P.I.T.A) with Ann's ratatouille or tabouleh depending on the meal, and my sweet, self-aware-that-she-is-culinarliy-challenged mama - a trip to Bacco (love ya Mo!).  I know I'm a sentimental sap.  I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that it generalizes to food. What a lucky glutton I am that my family makes all my culinary dreams come true!  I'm feeling so blessed to have these loving people as my family and so lucky to have shared these traditions of breaking bread with them. Can't wait to see ya'll soon!

At least I'm not this bad, right?

Gratitude and Edification

In 4th-grade, I had this spunky first-year teacher named Mrs. Waldrop.  She was young, full of energy and eager to put into play all of the creative ideas she'd had while preparing to become a teacher.  There was the balloon dart throwing game where you'd pop a balloon and have to write a sentence with the spelling word that fell out (which seems a bit dangerous now that I think about it - I mean really, how adept could a 4th-grader possibly be at wielding an object considered a state-of-the-art weaponry in Medieval times?), her very own version of The Price is Right that I'm sure instilled some math component, and the daily "Gratitude and Edification" segment. After the morning announcements and Pledge of Allegiance, students who chose to do so could raise their hand and share something they were thankful for or a way they had improved themselves.  Often answers involved bragging about winning a softball game or getting new Nike sneakers under the guise of being "thankful" for them - after all it was 4th grade and still very much in the "I am the center of the universe" phase of one's childhood.  However, it was a great vocabulary lesson - what 4th-grader (or 30 year-old for that matter) knows the definition of "edification?"  Edification: /ˌedəfiˈkāSHən/. n. Intellectual, moral, or spiritual improvement; enlightenment.  Well done, Mrs. Waldrop and all before the days of Pinterest.  How did you do it?

So being that it's the time of year to reflect on what you are thankful for, here's a little "Gratitude and Edification" session  - adult Caroline version, and only a sample of a much larger list, in no particular order:

1.  I am thankful for my sweet furries - there is no better expression of unconditional love than that of a pet.  I saw a quote once that said, "a dog is the only thing that loves you more than he loves himself..." which brings me to #2 on the list:

2.  I am thankful for my Oreck vacuum.  Without it, we would certainly be overtaken by the pet-hair tumbleweeds that accumulate in our house daily. 

3.  I am thankful for real mail.  Nothing makes my day like seeing a letter or card from friends and family.

4.  I am thankful that my daddy taught me how to properly use a knife - an important skill for someone who finds herself in the kitchen as often as I do.  Never expose your fingers. (if only I had generalized this rule of thumb (ha!) when using The German's fancy Pampered Chef mandoline tool.  That was an unfortunate little mishap.  Thank goodness for the Colonial and his Army first aid kit)

5.  I am thankful that every time I turn on my shower or sink faucet, clean water comes directly to me.  I can't believe how much I took this for granted in years past.  Traveling to other parts of the world made me realize how much of a gift this really is.

6. I am thankful that there are people in this world with the fortitude and gumption to fight for the underdogs.  They are a source of inspiration and are selfless in their efforts to make our world a better place.

7.  I am thankful for Pumpkin Spice creamer.  Now that I can purchase an entire vat of Autumn in a bottle, I am no longer a slave to Starbucks and their cranky baristas. 

8.  As shameful as it might be to say so - I am thankful for Facebook.  It is like a portal to home and the friends and family that I miss so much.

9.  I am thankful for my new Time Card Pro app.  Before I discovered this little gem, I had to calculate monthly work hours by hand (causing smoke to spew from my ears as a result of over-loaded, non-math oriented brain).  Changed my life. 

10. I am thankful that I succeeded in "edifying" myself by passing my Board Exam.  Whew.  What a relief.  I worried poor hubsy to death when I called him crying last week.  It took a few excruciating seconds for me to squeak out the words, "I passed."  That wonderful man rushed home, opened a bottle of "the good wine," and took me out for a celebratory dinner.  Husband of the year. 

...and I'm extremely thankful that spiders can't fly.

Let's Catch Up

I'm sure you're thinking that I must have won that big house of my dreams and become a reclusive rich person swimming in my pool of gold coins. With all this new nouveau riche-ness, I couldn't possibly have time to blog. Nope. Shocking, I know.  We didn't win - but I have been busy in the time I've been away.  For one, I've gone from brunette back to my beloved blonde. I've discovered my disdain for fondant (and well, confirmed my disdain for baking), started a new job, made "brow history" at the Benefit Brow Bar, and perhaps most significantly, I finally sat for my Board Certification exam. Eeek, now I've said it out loud. Human behavior is funny - I've found myself guarding the fact that I was taking it. Because, you know, if people know, then they will ask how you did. What if I don't pass? I'll have to tell them. Oh, the shame. Will I have an invisible scarlet letter "F" for failure across my chest? Perhaps, but I'm sure it will only be self-imposed. I will find out in 45 days. So for now I'm basking in the ignorance of the impending answer and enjoying the fact that I am DONE! My life is once again my own!  Look out you bunnies of dust; Mt. Pile O' Laundry, I will soon be conquering you...and finally giving some attention my poor, neglected blog.

Buh-Bye Brown... we never were a good match for one another

Born again Blonde

Just some of the fall-out from Operation Study 24/7

My first and last attempt at cake decorating.  There is a reason why fondant is an "F" word.

The Benefit Brow Bar was trying to set a Guinness World Record for the most brows done in a day. I did my part.

annnddd...I have found a "Southern Girl Sisterhood" out here in Cali!  More on this to come...

Ticket to A Dream

Birthdays are kind of a big deal.  I am still like a 5-year old when it comes to my birthday.  My parents always made my big day pretty special. Mom would decorate the kitchen table, make a special-request breakfast, and cover the front door with one of those $0.99 plastic "Happy Birthday" cut-away banners sold in most grocery store floral departments (she sill uses the same one to this day to celebrate family birthdays. The corners are saggy and puckered - each pock mark representing another birthday gone by.  I am embarrassed to say that I scoffed at the plastic banner and its pitiful faded, tattered state last time I saw it. Shame on me.)  She once called the local radio station and had the "Light Lunch" segment dedicated to me on my birthday.  Dad would pretty much spoil me with whatever I asked for (thankfully within reason...no ponies or the 3000 GT I lusted over for my 16th birthday.)  Yeah, birthdays were a big deal.  So I'm happy to report, that my husband has picked up the gauntlet and done a pretty good job with keeping the tradition. He endures the weeks (read: months) of my pointing to things in stores and magazines, "this would be a great present for my birthday!"  or after reading a new restaurant review "How about we go to _____, for my birthday?" Somewhere in the back of his mind I know he is chanting, "for better, for worse, for better, or worse..."  I am a bit...eh...enthusiastic about the whole thing. He lets me pick where I want to eat, pretends it is the first he's heard of it when I exclaim, "THAT'S really what I want for my birthday! (secretly knowing it will change 45 times before I actually decide)"   He's a good man.  So this year, has been really no exception.  I have gone from wanting a mirror from IKEA, a gold charm for my bracelet, a food-processor, to a new pair of cowboy boots. But isn't the process part of the fun?  Was I the only kid who eagerly awaited the Toys R' Us ad in the Sunday paper so I could circle the things I wanted?  Or dog-eared pages in the Service Merchandise catalog?  I think not....it just seems like I haven't quite grown out of it yet.  So it is with a slight caveat that I reveal the latest item on the birthday wish list...this house:

"Edwardian-style residence totals over 3000 square feet, comprising a glorious 3 bedroom, 3 bath home with a gourmet chef's kitchen and sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay."  Yes, please.

The view from my future balcony.  You can see Alcatraz there on the right.

Ok, before you start thinking that I may be overshooting slightly (and feeling really sorry for poor Lew), I assure you this birthday wish, may actually come true thanks to The Fourth Annual San Francisco Dream House Raffle. I actually have a shot.  For $150, we are entered to win this dream house (or $1.5 million in cash if we so choose).  There are also four "mini-drawings" leading up to the Grand Prize raffle bringing the grand total of getting-excited potential to FIVE! Five divided by $150...$30 a pop. Not bad for the gift that keeps on giving...
until the July 14th drawing anyway.

Date with Downtown

Inspired by the beautiful Fall weather, I decided to take myself on a date. I made myself a hair appointment, did a little recon on fun places to target, made sure I had my handy Clipper Card (the new "re-loadable" magnetic card that all in-the-know city folk use to ride the BART), donned my comfy boots and set off. Today was the day I was chopping off my hair - well 6 or so inches of it anyway. I felt empowered!

Having researched short hair styles on-line, I was ready with a photo that represented the look I was going for. While showing Ledora the picture (and wondering if she was secretly hating me) I gave all the disclaimers I could think of..."I know I might not have the hair for this, not sure if this style will look good with my face shape, I  mean, I know I'm not 'Heidi Klum'"...and several other self-doubting statements that we girls are so good at coming up with before a major beauty change.  After talking me out of that particular style, but assuring me that she had a plan, Ledora took the first snip.  It felt good.  Once she was finished, I have to say...I didn't completely hate it. After a few more minutes I actually started to love it. (in this cloud of bliss, I momentarily lost sight of the fact that $30 for a can of mousse is downright outrageous and agreed to tack it on to the bill. damn. it better make me look like Heidi Klum.)

Enjoying the "swish" of my new do, I found myself walking more quickly down the street.  I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while attempting to steal a glance at my reflection in the store windows.  Finally reaching the nail salon, I was pleased to see that I was the only one there. No wait= lucky day. Continuing my bold streak, I picked out a deep purple for my toes and plunked my feet into the soothing bath water. Bliss. Attempting to make conversation, the nail lady asked about my day.  I told her about my daring move to chop off my long hair and she looked at me puzzled saying, "why you do that?" hmmm. Wasn't expecting that. After a defensive giggle and mumbling something about "ready for a change," I closed my eyes in attempt to signal I wasn't really up for conversation. To this ingenuitous young lady, my relaxation signaled I must want to upgade to a foot message..."ten dollahs...ten minute?" ok...what the hell? I had already blown 30 on a can of compressed air...what was 10 more? Gotta say...best foot message...ever. Completely worth it.

With my new shiny purple toes, I headed down the street in search of more adventure (and specifically a quest for the perfect pair of black riding boots).  I pass so many alluring shops Anthropologie, Sephora, Prada, Urban Outfitters...it was like the Candy Land of shopping. Enter Tory Burch. Can no longer resist. Defenses are down. I go in. I am greeted by two "associates" at the front. Two. Young preppy girl with long blonde hair and fabulously gay Asian man. YPG must have laid her claim to me as she was the one that followed me to the boot section. No sooner do my eyes land on the holy grail of all riding boots than her perky voice eggs me on, "would you like to see these in your size?" Can't do it. These have to be well...above my price ran...oh lord...yes. Staring back at me...$495 price tag. I muster up some kind of "Christmas list" excuse and evacuate. Need cool air.

Head on to try to find the Benefit "Brow Bar" that I've heard so much about. In retro throw-back form, I have the address written on a piece of paper (GPS has burned me badly before while downtown. we're currently working out our trust issues).  485 Market Street. Find Market. Determine that I am on "even" side of the street. Cross over to "odd." 463 Market Street. Keep walking to determine if I am walking in correct direction. Pass Aldo shoe store. Could be hit or miss. Worth a look. Lust over authentic looking cowboy boots. Muster will power. Exit Aldo. Walk past several store fronts without seeing any address identification. Feeling frustration mounting.  Pass open doors of Abercrombie and Fitch store. Model-eque boy greeter makes eye contact. Use this to my advantage and ask him for direction. He passes me off to not so model-esque security guard (should have known using addresses and map location to find places was waaaay before Boy Wonder's time).  He tells me to walk back the way I just came from. Frustration now oozing. After retracing my steps for the 4th time, I ask a Victoria's Secret girl. She tells me illusive Brow Bar is located inside Macys. Of course it is. Would have been excellent if they had mentioned that little tidbit next to the address on their website. Eurekea. Brow Bar is in sight. A few less brow hairs later, I am on my way to BART.



During my walk, I attempt to rationalize purchase of more-than-a-car-payment boots. "I mean riding boots are classic...I could wear them pretty much forever. So if I amortize $495 out over the next say....25 years...that's totally affordable."  Pass H&M (remember I am in shopping Candy Land); see perfect black riding boots on model. I walk in with a purpose...not going to look at clothes. Just boots. Navigate self to shoe section. No black riding boots. Hunt down snooty associate. Points at the shoe section we are two feet away from. Yeah, got it mister, that's where they should be. I plead with him and show him the ones on the model.  Snoot McGrumpyPants informs me that those are just for show...they do not actually sell those. Fantastic. Feeling dejected after being so close to my goal, I see a gorgeous double-breasted coat with brass buttons...and it happens to come in a fabulous 50's turquoise.  Wait...what's that....there's a 50% off tag on it. Oh yes, please come home with me!

Regaining focus, I descend to the BART station. After being briefly verbally accosted by a man "needing a favor...and it's not money" (he was wanting a BART ticket home or so he said.  I say he needs to work on his intro a bit),  I was on my way home (still, of course,  attempting to rationalize boot purchase) feeling pretty successful about my date. This could definitely lead to a long-term relationship.

Ignorance is Bliss

Dear Pepperidge Farms,

I agree that you have captured the essence of a great pretzel with your Baked Naturals Pretzel Thins.  I am a fan. However, your packaging department leaves a lot to be desired.  It seems that on average there were about 12 wholly intact thins in my box. This is a problem.You see, I have this new app on my iPhone that allows me to track my caloric intake for the day.  I've become a bit obsessive about it. (I tend to do that.)  It's become like a game...it even has a bar code scanner.  So you see, I scan your little box of carby-crack...ahem...pretzel thins and there it comes to my iPhone...11 crisps 110 calories. I dutifully dole out my allotted 11 crisps. For a brief moment, I marvel at how health conscious and responsible I am being. My first few crisps are too soon replaced by a gaping void on my paper towel. I want MORE. Those are soon added to the carbohydrate cue waiting to become inches around my thighs. I reach my hand into the box to repeat process but all that my hand grabs are pretzel shards. How am I supposed to keep caloric track of these? I'm not. I don't. It is soon a prezel-shard free-for-all. I then realize that almost the entire box is gone. There's no point in saving this piddly amount - I might as well finish it off. Quickly assessing the salt to crumb ratio at the bottom of the bag I opt for the old "down the hatch" motion tipping the bag up to my mouth (my mother who tortured me with "etiquette school" would be so proud...no really, she did. ). Really bad idea...which brings me to another point. Could you please foresee that gluttons like me need protection from ourselves and either (1) make the salt actually affix to the pretzels in the first place or (2) dye the salt a bright neon color so that I may better assess ratio in the future.

and no this has nothing to do with lack of self-control. Thank you.

Southern Comfort

There's just something comforting about being home.Your body melts from holding the attention stance of being in an unfamiliar place. There is a lightness to your step and an effortlessness about your behavior.  You have conquered this place and know exactly what to expect from it. This is where you are rooted.

The drive from Bluffton to Charleston is a spiritual one for me. It used to be 45 miles of two-lane road along the coast of South Carolina. Breathtaking views of the Coast are interspersed with miles of forest and remnants of towns that once thrived in the Old South.  For most of the drive, the land revealed no signal of time or era or having been touched by man.  I feel a twinge of anger and regret at the sight of the large cranes and orange cones as they manipulate this beauty to bend to man's whim. I fear it will never be the same. It will never be the same. Almost as soon as a pit starts to rise in my stomach, the sultry smell of pluff mud and sweet grass brings calm over me. My lips begin to mouth the words of a familiar country song that comes across the radio as if it is an innate response.  I open the windows in order to take in every moment.  The chirr of the cicada signals it is summertime and sunset is coming. The whoosh of thick, warm air envelops me as if offering a hug.  I smirk at my moment of nostalgia thinking this, too must be the thought of each generation enduring "progress." So I concede to the four-lane highway like many Carolinians before me. Our beloved Carolina will never be the same but it will always be beautiful.  It will always be home.

Protection from the Witness Progam

Jehovah's Witnesses - a force of nature that will make most humans hunker down as if the words "Hurricane Warning" had flashed across the TV. Seriously, I put it to you, who out there hasn't drawn the curtains, turned off the TV, and recoiled into the deepest part of the house at the mere mention of these heralds.  I was out walking Ollie the other day and saw a group of of nicely dressed individuals leaving the front stoop of a house. Not an unusual site in the city.  In fact, I'm a little surprised I noticed them at all, but they were walking rather slowly. Congregating. Carrying books. Formulating a plan. Oh dear Lord. I quickly reigned Oliver in, switched direction and darted home. Must warn Lewis! I attempted to be crafty with the direction I took.  I didn't want them to see what house I went in to. Then they'd know we were home.  We'd be sitting ducks!  No sooner do my feet cross the thershold than I warn Lewis of the impending forecast, "Juh-hovuh's Witnessessssss. Dohhn't ahhnser thuh door!"

Why is it that these prophets of the pamphlet strike such fear in our hearts?  Does it hail back to medieval times when we felt the need to protect our castle? After all, the Witness only becomes scary when he's in your neighborhood, close to your castle.  If you happen to drive by while in the safety of your car and see some poor sap about to answer the door, do you not chuckle to yourself, and think, "thank gawd that wasn't me?!" You do.  Or is it that we just don't want to hear it?  After all, the spiel is never a quick one. Perhaps if it was, "Hello. God loves you. Come to our church if you'd like. We have doughnuts on Sundays. Have a nice day," maybe then we'd answer? I mean, how many times do these agents of Jehovah really gain a follower? I can't imagine the odds are in their favor. Maybe they should try the doughnut idea.............or a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

Caroline-the Human Voo-Doo Doll

I'll get you, you little yuppie you...muhaaaaahhaaaah!

While on my soapbox for a moment, I want to say that I think there is a lot to gain from other cultures and being open to multifarious ways of thinking. [ok, I totally know what you are thinking right now..."isn't she showing off with that big word?!" and you are right...I am. But hey, I tortured myself by memorizing all these ridiculous big words when studying for the GRE and only think it is fair to get my money's worth by using one here or there] However it is also good to know one's limits. As many of you know, I recently ventured (way) out of my comfort zone and tried acupuncture. While I consider myself to be a completely healthy person, I do have certain pesky ailments that -truth be told- many of us are haunted by, specifically to me...muscle tension and (pretty chronic) sinus infections. However, what actually prompted me to dip my toes in this latest sector of "medicine" was a crippling pain in my neck that began a few weeks ago. [ok...maybe not "crippling"per se...I do have a tendency to be a bit on the dramatic side, it is one of my many charms really, but the condition did leave me walking around like an 80-year-old woman...not exactly attractive for a newlywed woman pretending not to be on the brink of her "early 30's"]  I digress...So, looking into exploring other doctrines, I happen upon <dah...dah...dunnnnnn> acupuncture. Why not? After all, (I justify to myself), if I had grown up in China this would be the norm...the only reason why I rely on a person in a white coat with a "dr." in front of his name is because that is what I grew up with...what I am accustomed to. <Insert self-congratulations here...aren't I becoming the self-reflective one?!> So I make myself an appointment.

Her name was Rebecca. Normal enough, right? I walk in, seems like a typical San Francisco apartment/working space. We go in. She asks me if I want a cup of tea. I think to myself..."awwww, how cute! How very-Chinese-medicine of her...tea!"  We sit down and she asks me the pro forma questions about why I am there, including a question about my "stools" I'll have you know, and is very thorough about getting to know all about my health. Then she places a white towel over the desk and asks me to place my forearms on it. She will take readings on my pulse for the next 4 minutes.  Ackkkkward. Should I be making conversation? Does she need to summon the spirits at this time? Shit. What do I do? Great. Now my pulse is probably racing and she can tell that I am nervous. Is she going to extra-stick me with needles?! Am I giving a false reading?!!! OH LORD!!!! Ok, Caroline, relax. Maybe you should have taken her up on that chamomile tea. Fast forward...awkward pulse test over. great. let's get to the meat and potatoes of this little project. I'm clearly through the awkward part....oh wait....what's that? You need to look at my tongue? Jeez. I would have used one of those fancy tongue scrapers and Listerined if I had known this! Ok, fine, I swallow and stick out my tongue. man, this is weird.

Finally on the table, which now I'm convinced will be the most comfortable part of the session, she begins with the needles. Needle One. Not so bad. Ok, I can TOTALLY handle this!  Needles TWO, THREE, FOUR. I am congratulating myself on how completely hardcore I am...whoa, this is nothing! Needles are being inserted into my flesh and I can totally handle it! GRRRRRR! I AM SHE-RA! She continues to ask me if I feel the needles. Not wanting to portray myself as a total wuss, I report, "well, kinda, but it's not bad, really." WRONG ANSWER! Apparently you are supposed to feel it...in a not-so-zen kinda way...like numbness, dullness, or a shooting sensation in your muscles! Every time I would report back that I didn't feel a certain needle meant that she would either dig that needle in further or remove it and, (with much more vigor) replace it into an adjoining "meridian" until I reported feeling it and therefore, as I would not soon enough learn, establish my "chi." So much for trying to be hardcore, I was quickly learning to cry "uncle" at every opportunity.  Ok, so my previous idea of this being a relaxing Chinese-medcine-zen kinda' thing was very quickly going out the window. But wait. I had researched this on youtube and youtube wouldn't let me down, right?! The people on youtube said this wasn't supposed to hurt! They even said that most people fall asleep! Damn! This doesn't seem right! Rebecca clearly does NOT want me to be zen let alone FALL ASLEEP!  WHERE AM I?! Is she going to incapacitate me and harvest my organs (especially since they are now tenderized)?!  UNCLE! UNCLE! UNNNNNCLEEEEEE!