and they usually only make fun of bachelors...

If there was an award for least likely to eat correctly unless someone else is cooking for them, I would, hands down, win.

I am not proud of that fact.

However!

I am proud of this grocery trip's outcome:

Wine, diet coke, cereal, ice cream and all-the-cheesy-chips-bag.

It's ever so strange being here in Cambodia sans-Topher.  I often don't know what to do with myself when I turn to say something to him...and he's not there. 

Plus, there is no one to eat my yucky pretzels from my otherwise perfect bag of snacks.

Go ahead, tell me what you really think of my grocery store decisions.

gong khnyom (my bicycle)

Well, March just really got away from me there, didn’t it? It just slipped by as I went about my daily work, unsuspecting that I’d reach the end of it and have a mere two posts to show for it. Part of it is I’ve been making a concentrated effort to spend less time at my computer- with less than four months left here, I don’t want to wish I had done anything differently- and part of it is that I’ve been sublimely happy this month, working alongside my new counterpart (she’s basically the bomb, and deserving of that dated and somewhat tragic euphemism). I’ve been spending time planning new and invigorated lessons, and I have more energy to do all the things. So, less time inside the small white box with keys, and more outside, in the world, being.

But the focus of this post is actually how I get there- to the outside world. I’ve been using a gifted item for the past 21 months, and I figured it was about time to share my thoughts with all of you regarding the bicycle that Peace Corps Cambodia was kind enough to send to me. Hopefully, it goes without saying, this review is entirely my own, though I was given this item to me for the express purpose of its use, and I’m assuming, eventual review here on the interwebs.**

To the outside eye, my bike resembles your typical, average, everyday two-wheeled contraption. I thought that when I first received it. It did strike me as something new and different when I realized that the bike Peace Corps was gifting me was more than just a method of moving about- it was freedom.

My freedom is a cool, creamy ivory- a big juxtaposition to the typical silver plated bikes I see about town- with a roomy, spongy seat. No tiny, bikini-covered-parts crushing here, no sir! I have tested this bike on two very long bike rides, and I can tell you, it really lives up to its advertising. My butt only begins to ache after hour two, and transitions to numbness after hour four. I mean, that’s basically a reason to spring for one right now!

To make the bike a bit more me, I did add some yellow duct tape in spirals around the frame, and name it Bumblebee. I think adding the name has really bonded the bike and me in a way that I’ll never forget. I’m pretty sure that naming my transportation has led to said transportation to be kind to me. I have had minimal problems with my bike, aside from the expected bi-weekly air pump-ups, and the few times I’ve had to have the inner tube mended. (Well, there was that one time I had to buy a whole new inner tube, and it did cost $2.50, which hurt a bit, but I’m apt to blame the not-actual-asphalt-but-concrete-covering-giant-piles-of-loose-rubble roads I circulate on.)

I really think that Bumblebee can feel my love and gratitude streaming through my fingertips to the handlebar, and my tippy toes to the pedals, and this love has been returned threefold in the ease of caring for my bicycle.

I do feel like I have to mention that just this week, my back tire did finally break at a seam, and I had to purchase a new one. I guess it’s to be expected after 21 straight months of use (plus who know how many other months of use by a previous Volunteer! Oh yes, a key aspect- these bikes are recycled, which can only be good things for the environment!) I’d need to invest in something grander than just air for 7.5 cents every two weeks. Luckily, I happen to have a husband who carries more money than me (I average my daily needed .50 cents for breakfast and .60 cents for diet coke in my wallet each day), and he forked over the cash. I’m currently seeking ways to keep him from remembering that he paid, so suggestions welcome!

All in all, I have to say that if I were in the market to say goodbye to my friends and family for two years, move to a foreign (in every aspect) land, and seek to become a true part of a new community, I’d want a bicycle from Peace Corps Cambodia under my rump each day. Highly recommend this adventure and this bike, friends! Get thee to a recruiting office, now!



**This is not a real review of an item gifted to a blogger. This is satire.

It's Universal, You Know.

So a few months back, Chris' Uncle John sent us the ultimate of world-uniting candy:

Pop Rocks.

And then a fantastic former co-worker sent us some more.

So we had to.

This evening, we had major pop rocks explosion fun.  Check out these four videos to see it all go down.

Thank you John and Keisha- they LOVED it.

The Martini Files: Dr. No

this picture has nothing to do with this post.

So, sometime in the last six months, I mentioned to Chris that I thought we should use our free time in the evenings (after the sun goes down at 6:30 and before we head to bed around 10:30) to do something completely awesome:

Watch every single Bond film every made, creating a scoring rubric against which we will evaluate each said film as we view it, and then share our likely variant male-female perspective.

Which is actually what it evolved into, if we're being honest.  The initial conversation was more like: "Dude, Skyfall was so good!  We should so watch every single Bond movie! And then rate them!"  I'm not entirely sure of his exact answer, but, I mean, it must have been a resounding yes because we're here now (that's how decisions between spouses go, right? total and complete mutual agreement of all ideas presented by yourself?).

And so.

A month or so ago, we watched the very first Bond film, Dr. No.  Then we watched From Russia With Love.  And then Chris told me I had to write about the first film before we could review any more.

So, without further ado, our commentary and rubric scores on Dr. No.

Dr. No

1962

with Sean Connery

Chris' Overall Review
It’s impossible to can Dr. No…it’s the original Bond flick and so many other movies follow its lead. From the “bloody gun sight” opening to the original Bond theme music, its legacy has endured until today. Still, any fan of Bond or the movie in general will be able to point out a few face palms…

First, the music. It’s really inopportune. Almost like that are over-asserting the fact that, this will be the Bond theme music for the next thirty years. At one point the Bond music plays when he picks up keys to his car: unnecessary.

The villain is amazing – ethnic, crippled (but stronger because of it) and wildly cryptic with his plans for global domination. So cryptic in fact, that I really didn’t understand it. Apparently, affecting the launch of a Moon-bound rocket is enough to control the world…go figure.

Also, and this is nitpicky, in the final action scene of the movie, you see Dr. No’s island blowing apart (because Bond overloaded his convincing nuclear reactor: basically a converted swimming pool) and you see HUNDREDS of people fleeing. HOW DID HE EMPLOY THEM? Think about it – so many people = vacation days, benefits, salaries and a huge HR department. I just don’t see the feasibility of supporting such an immense army of evil, from a financial perspective, without any real assets or cash cow. Bond SHOULD have just started a union, which would have bankrupt Dr. No.

Despite its antiquated flaws, Dr. No is an awesome movie. Its all there – Bond’s uncanny knack for getting out of impossible situations, his superhuman ability to detect subterfuge and misdirection and some pretty cool (green screen enhanced) chase scenes. Most importantly, it sets the franchise up for a long, long run…

Kate's Overall Review
I mean, I'll be honest.  At this point, I am just watching because of the awesome retro 60's clothes, Sean Connery's manly beast chest and accent, and because I said I would.  This first one was decent- if I'd read the books and been a fan, I'd have been really excited in 1962 to see this movie.  But, as a stand alone movie... it was decent.

They do hook you in immediately in the beginning with a murder! Oh my!  But the music is used terribly - seriously, the main theme used as he steps off a plane? Into a hotel room? But NOT during a car chase, or as he runs from the island that is about to nuclearly detonate? Um?

The highlights of this film were the firsts: the first utterance of "Bond. James Bond."  The first listen of that theme music we all know so well.  The first Bond girl.  The first, first, first.  But, I'm holding out for number two to see how they connect this back in and build on it. 

Rubric Scores:

Opening Sequence:
the original! some black dots and color swirls and then! the shot from the barrel of a gun. here we go!
Kate: 5
Chris: 3

Quality of Bond (Believability):
Kate: 8
Chris: 7

Quality of Bond (Swagger, Sexiness):
so, he did don a blue suit for the second half of the movie. a light blue suit. with matching shoes.
Kate: 7
Chris: 5

Quality of Bond (Actor):
i mean, it's sean connery.
Kate: 9
Chris: 8

Quality of Villain:
seriously, Dr. No is pretty pathetic.
Kate: 4
Chris: 6

Quality of Bond Girl (General: as a character in the film):
they meet each other because she is hunting for shells on the remote island of the villain?
Kate: 5
Chris: 3

Quality of Bond Girl (Sexiness, Boldness, etc):
her entrance will be used as the gauge for all others: climbing out of the ocean in a sand colored bikini.
Kate: 8
Chris: 8

Quality of Plot: 
Kate: 4
Chris: 2

Locations:
England and Jamaica.
Kate: 3
Chris: 3

Quality of Best Fight or Chase Scene:
some tires squeal. seriously.
Kate: 5
Chris: 3

Delivery of "Bond. James Bond." (Location, circumstance, etc.)
nothing compares to the original.  happens at a gaming table, while drinking a martini.
Kate: 10
Chris: 9

Q gadgets:
dude, all he gets is a new gun at the beginning?
NA

Car:
NA- Had a driver throughout film

Quality of Human Elements that Make Kate Want to Watch:
you know, i'm invested, i'm hooked, we'll see where this goes.
Kate: 7
Chris: NA

Bond Fail (biggest scene that detracts from the plot):
the music is used terribly! chris can't get over the blue suit.
Kate:  -5
Chris: -6

Bond Fail (Instances of sexism, racism, other -isms):
depiction of Jamaicans
Kate: -8
Chris: -3

Total Score:
Kate: 62 out of 140
Chris: 51 out of 130

----

have you an opinion on james bond?

two truths and a lie

who else is tired of self-indulgent photobooth photos?

Today, I biked to the teacher training center prepared to engage in a rousing game of Two Truths and a Lie with my trainees.  Upon arrival, I used my limited- and - mayhaps - stagnated Khmer reading skills to determine that today, the 14th, was in fact a day for no regular class for students.  This was confirmed various times as I encountered fellow teachers, and so, I retired my game idea until the morrow.

However, last night as I couldn't fall asleep, I found myself thinking up rather elaborate truths and lies to share, and so I present them for your perusal, remark and, most of all, guessing.

...............................

A:
Last week, Chris saw over my shoulder that I was 'exploring' Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.  He was intrigued and without very much prodding at all, in fact, he then spent the evening being chosen by a wand and sorted into his house (by the by, do you think Dumbledore would consider age 27 an appropriate time to allow for sorting? you know, because he was concerned that sometimes, we sort too soon?).  From the minute he entered the Pottermore website, I called it: he would be sorted into Gryffindor.  

When he reached the Sorting Ceremony and began to answer the series of questions drafted by her literary majesty, Lady Rowling, I was confronted with bleakest sort of self-awareness as my chosen true love scoffed away the idea of being scared of isolation or the dark, or choosing to walk toward the forest when the ocean is the most perfectly viable option.  And when he was sorted into Gryffindor, I said to myself, Well, self, you've been equally sorted into both Slytherin and Ravenclaw, and we can't have a Gryffindor married to a Slytherin, so that account must be eradicated.  The decision was of course helped along as the newly anointed Roaring Lion in our relationship confirmed that I was definitely of the Ravenclaw sort: wacky but intelligent, witty but erratic.  

And then we dueled.


B:
Just yesterday, I spent two hours reading about my and Chris' moon and planet charts at the time of our birth.  It was like reading a book about my soul, even the squishy bad parts that I wish no one knew.  I even got Chris on board and he was enthralled.  And then we proceeded to have a thirty minute discussion about how everything about our interactions and disagreements can be easily explained because of the location of Pluto and Mars on the day we were born.  We also then referenced the birth charts for the rest of the evening, and I'm ninety-two percent sure it has revolutionized our relationship in ways no one could have imagined.


C:
Today, after I arrived to school and was notified of the cancellation of class, I used the not-so-rare opportunity to swing by Chris' school to see what he was up to.  I found his bike outside of the twelfth grade building, and when he noticed me, he beckoned me in.  I've swung by his class a few times, most usually when a similar occurrence of class-cancelling has happened.  This day, he was just beginning a lesson centered around the heroine of the 12th grade textbook, Sophea, attending her cousin's wedding in Cambodia, and then reception in London (because, you know, Sophea married a Brit.) (The textbooks were drafted and written with significant help from the British Council. Just saying.)


The students were eager to overlook the boring story of Sophea and instead asked for a discussion about marriage in America.  Never ones to disappoint, I cajoled Chris into re-enacting our entire wedding day, from wake up to, ahem, sleep.  From a joyful first look to a tearful walk down the aisle, culminating in a dance party and a send off of bubbles, the students were enthralled and we were asked for a repeat performance each afternoon for the next month, at 2 and 7 pm. They even said they'd pay a .25 cent admission to see it all again.  

We had to turn them down, as we aren't allowed to charge money for our services, and really, that's a performance one just can't repeat on command.

...............................

Your turn!

like a goldfish

I have now officially seen the Taylor Lautner "thriller" Abduction thrice on Asian HBO.

There are a number of things I have come to realize about myself and my life because of these viewings:

1. I can recognize Dermot Mulroney's voice within three words, and every single time I always wonder where that scar came from.  I imagine a variety of scenarios, ranging from a baseball sliding-into-home accident when he was in little league, to a knife fight in a bowling alley a la Grease 2.  I could easily look it up, methinks, because "Dermot Mulroney scar" was the second thing that pre-populated Google as I typed his name to ensure I was spelling it correctly.  But it's a just a little better, not knowing, you know?  I like the mystery of it all.

B. I haven't decided my thoughts on Taylor Lautner yet.

3. Okay, so I think I still like Zac Efron as a teenage idol more.  He can sing and all. But he doesn't have those muscles?  And Taylor always seems to be squinting into the sun? Which makes him a bit more mysterious, less boy-next-door, like Zac? And I don't think Taylor would ever try to pull off skinny jeans, which speaks to my soul and impresses the teenaged girl living inside my movie-selecting-hypothalamus-gland.

D.  The girl in the movie and her bangs sent me into a deep spiral of eyebrow hatred for approximately one week, culminating in me declaring to Topher that I'm pretty sure I've waxed and plucked my eyebrows into such submission that I'll never get to have those Brooke Shield-like eyebrows that I so deplored in seventh grade but now secretly kind of want back, I mean, a few days a week at least.  And I'm a bit sad about all that there, which led me to ask Topher:

Do you think my eyebrows are too skinny, and do you like my eyebrows even a little bit at all?

To which he said:
Your eyebrows? I don't even notice them.  Unless that left one gets that little tuft that it sometimes does and makes them all uneven looking.

You can envision the wail that my hypothalamus gland let loose after that, oh yes I bet you can.

(I'm still moving on from this eyebrow episode.  Good thoughts for my speedy recovery are welcomed and shall be returned equally so upon the commencement of your next very own physical appearance non-freakout, as dictated by the whomever-therefore-reads-my-blog-clearly-cares-for-my-ramblings-and-I-shall-care-in-return-unto-them guidelines and rules.)

All of this to say, that you're probably asking how one has the time to wonder so deeply about one's eyebrows?

Too which I say, when you've been mysteriously ill for three weeks and have a hotel room to yourself for a weekend in which you are attempting to convince your body to provide all the necessary...items for your medical officer to attempt to diagnose you, you have have a lot of time.

And so.

You also do things like:

A. Make ridiculous lists like the preceding one, and this one, too.

2. Spread out every article you brought on your adventure onto every available surface so that when your husband shows up so that you don't have to spend the entire weekend alone, he says, for the thousandth time since you met nine years ago, "you're just like a goldfish, expanding to the space that you're given!"  To which you reply "when in Rome!" which is the universally acknowledged non sequitur a wife is to use in reply to all statements ever made by silly Tophers and husbands alike.

C. Spend hours thinking about how you seem to have lost your quest for perfection, a fatal flaw that has dogged you since birth.  This occurs in the moment wherein you realize you don't actually need to achieve the best language score ever! Especially in a language you enjoy speaking, but one that will likely very rarely ever again be useful to you.  This, in turn, becomes a realization that renders one of your Thirty before 30 goals essentially nonsensical, causing you to question what you're doing on this little corner of the internet anyway? Until you realize, who cares! You write this for you and that cute little kid with blue eyes that you dreamed about the other day that left a strange feeling in your arms when you woke up! Huzzah!

4. Realize that your desire to give up seeking perfection falls more in line with your Ravenclaw self (knowledge for knowledge's sake! seek out the interesting and don't be afraid to be your oddsboddikins self!) than your Slytherin one (achieve greatness at any cost!), causing you to sorrowfully relinquish your ties to said Slytherin Pottermore account.  You give a mournful prayer in honor of both your former JD-PhD-CEO-seeking-self and your attempts at even pretending you were somewhat of an adult.

Finally, it should be noted that a weekend alone in a hotel room means that you get to turn your air conditioner up really high, wear a hoodie with awesome thumb holes so no cold air can enter!, climb into bed sans-pants-but-with-hoodie and watch Abduction all over again and then type up a seemingly important blog post that is actually a delicious essay about nothing in particular, except to say:

so this is where I am and how I'm doing so far this new year.

How are you?

big plans, people

Yes, that's right, I've got big plans, people.  Big plans. For the future holidays, I mean. Future holiday traditions, in fact.

I think I've mentioned that since moving to a developing country and foregoing regular gatherings with our friends and family, having limited (at least, slower and more expensive) access to internet, and enjoying three hour long rest periods in the middle of every work day, Topher and I have gained a great deal more time to simply sit and chat with one another.

And chat we do.

Recently, one chat revolved around the Christmastimes we enjoyed as a child and would like to have with our as-yet-to-be-conceived-but-often-key-players-in-my-imagination children when the stork drops them off on our doorstep in coming years.

As it turns out, the Toph and I are both very big tradition-ists.  Not traditionalists.  No, rather we're both rather focused on the traditions we grew up with as children.  Many of our respective traditions fit rather nicely, like the pieces in a pricey puzzle you might buy in a gift shop in Jackson Hole or Ocean City (see how I did that, and referenced places of meaning for me and the husband?!)

Annnnddddd, some will require a bit more...finagling.

We both believe in parties.  I grew up with my family throwing elaborate, food and fun filled Christmas Eve parties until my nineteenth year of life, when my parents sold my childhood home (no hard feelings, there.  It's not like I didn't get to say goodbye and heard only through text about the weekend spent ripping up the nail-polish stained carpet in my room and the whitewashing of the walls I had spent many an afternoons gazing at, admiring our floor to ceiling wall paper, as was the custom of builder grade homes from the 1980s.)

(Only kidding there, Mom.  Really, no hard feelings.)

(Just trying to preempt the sure to come text when she wakes up and reads this blog via phone. Love you Cindy!)

Chris also grew up with a big party around the Eve of Christmas.  Both of our parties were made up of mainly church and neighborhood friends, and the family members who lived within driving distance or were visiting for the holidays.

So, there will be parties.  We have yet to agree if the party will be a Christmas Eve-Eve party or just Christmas Eve party, or another random weekend before Christmas day party.  We have some years to decide officially, but family and friends, be excited for 2013, when we will kick this tradition off.

At said parties, the food present is of utmost importance.  For me, two kinds of fudge (known, even in our Marsh household, as "Mom's fudge" and "Dad's fudge"), nutmeg log cookies, sugar cookies from my family recipe (used as wedding favors for our 2010 nuptials!), and "Tom and Jerry's," a sweet, egg and rum based concoction that I need to hear being whipped into a frenzy for it to really feel like Christmas to me.

For Chris, it's caviar, pate and deviled eggs. Candied bacon and various other finger foods.

(I mean, it's safe to say which of our food 'musts' are more versatile and kid friendly. I mean, I'm not knocking Topher's caviar or deviled eggs, even if you couldn't pay me with all the Christmas trees in the world to eat more of those items than I already have to satisfy my universal rule of 'try everything once.' I'm not calling those foods strange or unusual or even somewhat unpalatable.  No, that's your job in the comments.)

There will also be stockings.

Stockings are of the utmost importance to both Chris' family and mine.  For me, stockings are the first thing to be opened on Christmas morning, and they are chock full of special Christmas candies (like chocolate oranges! and chocolate shaped like bells!) and little, significant presents.  For a great deal of my life, every Christmas, I received a new cross (like, the little baby Jesus' cross) necklace and it was always in my stocking and it was always beautiful.  Stockings are gift cards, and that exciting moment when you reach your hand in and you just.don't.know.what's.NEXT! And your name is embroidered on the stocking with a Santa and his fluffy (real fluff!) beard underneath, relaxing in a chair with a puppy at his feet that your paternal grandmother knit for you when you were a wee babe and will be your stocking until the end of time, forever and ever, amen. That's Christmas, that is.

And for Chris. Stockings are pretty much THE event in his family.  They aren't even stockings? They're giant bags that everybody fills with everything, from those expensive little gift cards to a new year's supply of razors.  And it's crazy, but it's awesome, and you end up loving every item, from the new tee shirt of your favorite sports team to the solar-powered book light that Gaga gave you because she knows you like to read, even after the sun sets.  And it's at the same time terrifying and overwhelming and exhilarating and your heart's full to bursting with the pure joy of dozens of little things rolling around a giant bag just for you and each new grab is another moment of "oh my GOD who knew this was EXACTLY what I needed?! Was it you? You? You! Thank YOU!" And your hit with gratitude as you remember how much these people in this family love you and spend hours scouring places for even tiny little things that will brighten your life in the coming year.

And at this point, you're probably also wondering how in the Wenceslas Topher and I will manage to combine some seemingly starkly-different traditions into a semblance of two that are replicable and yet also honor both of our time-honored Christmastimes past?

I have no idea.

But, god donkey, I'm excited to try!

are you more of a fudge and cookie kind of christmas pal, or a pate and caviar pancakes person?

respond to that inner voice

So this is likely the farthest thing from what the creators of WEverb intended for this prompt, but here's what reading it sparked and thusly i then wrote and am now currently sharing with you all:

I don't know if it's because I'm a Scorpio, or because I was born when Pluto was in the ninth house of Venus...or something.

But seriously.  I have this thing- sometimes I get this feeling.  This feeling to do something really random.  Like grab something and take it with me when I'm leaving the house.  Or to go one way on the highway instead of the other.

Like, this one time in high school, I had this weird urge to bring both pairs of my tennis shoes to school.  And I didn't.  And that day, a friend asked if I had an extra pair she could borrow.  Nuts!

And, it's totally happened since then.

I mean, I can't remember any more specific instances, but it's TOTALLY happened again. For real!

So, whenever I get that inkling that tells me to bring an extra cardigan to the movies when I'm meeting friends, I do.

And now you all think I'm nuts.  Happy Holidays, though!

things i never thought i'd say, fifteen months later

"why am i not sweating?"

"i'm cold. can we turn the fan down?"

"pants feel weird."

"i'm sort of sick of nutella."

the bare minimum

I have some posts of substance simmering in my drafts folder, but because I'm so tired after coming home from a day of teaching, speaking Khmer and generally sweating a lot, you're getting posts like this.

So enjoy my incredibly deep thoughts about make up.

******

A long while ago, I posted about going makeup less in photos on this blog, and in general.

Since then, and since moving to Cambodia, I've completely forgotten how foreign it must be for some to consider going sans-makeup, out in public or even on a blog. 

So here's the deep thought:

Daily, I go outside, take pictures of myself, and generally exist without a smidge of make up.

I'd even hazard a guess that make up less photos are giving those eyeliner-ones a run for their money on this here blog.

And, proof, of course:

learning how to let bangs dry in a tropical climate. tonight.

macaroni and cheese, and beer.

after biking nearly 100 kilometers.

how we look, nearly every single evening after sunset.

enjoying jelly belly jelly beans that gave us a stomachache because we ate about fifty each.

my birthday, with my flowers from chris and my alaska stand cup full of ice cold coca cola.  i used that cup to honor ocean city as hurricane sandy was sweeping through my home land.

 You feel me?

Things I Should Have Let Go Of Ten Years Ago

Or rather:

Things I Love 

That Most 17-year-olds Love 

For Which I Should Feel Ashamed,

But I Don't.

Zac Efron

Glee

Making Birthday Cards with Crayola Markers for Friends

Celebrating My Birthday with Reckless Abandon and Complete Narcissistic Focus

Insisting on a Birthday Week (see above) 

Looking at Pictures of People on Facebook

Putting Stickers on My Planner

Using a Planner

Having a Favorite Type of Pen and Bypassing Seven Other Pens in My Purse Until I Fish Said Pen Out of My Bag

Eating Sour Candy and Making That Scrunched Up Face When I Eat It

Pondering What I Want to Be When I Grow Up, and Never Feeling Satisfied With What I Am Now.

and you?

really, really important things that are now true.

over one year in cambodia and my talents have been developed in a variety of many important and serious ways.  

as in,

i can now bike successfully just using my right hand, whereas previously only my left hand could be utilized thus so.

i can now dismount my bike as it continues to roll forward, simultaneously braking to stop and removing my helmet in one smooth motion.

i can now tune my dreams to play against the backdrop of funeral and wedding music.

i can now tell you the precise moment during any given adventure that i have begun sweating.

i can now consider, without laughing or gagging, the thought of getting frisky with topher whilst sweating.

i can now pick out random words being spoken about me in a different language, even when i wish i couldn't.

i have now mastered the art of "listening" to my ipod when i really just have my earphones in my ears.

i can now use a toothpick "politely", behind my hand, after every single meal or like a "gangster," all hanging out of my mouth, dangling on my lips.

i can now throw trash, bones and unsavory food bits on the floor during a meal without even looking for a rubbish can.

i can now call trash "rubbish" without laughing.

i can now withstand being hot and hungry five minutes further than my previous record of thirty seconds.

i can now accurately predict if i will have a bowel movement because of a meal as said meal is set directly in front of me.

i can now write blog posts about diarrhea without concern of my interweb friends disowning me, as i now have zero amounts of propriety remaining herein.

and you?

i mean it!

i've recently come to the conclusion that when i say, "i mean it!" i really mean "i'm going to try really hard but i desperately lack willpower so this will probably all be over in a matter of days!" 

as in:

statement: "i'm going to give up coca cola! i mean it!"
translation: "i'm going to not drink coca cola anymore after i finish the four that are in the fridge and i'll do really well for two days, and then i'll remember how delicious it is and why else do i have coozies if not to put a coca cola in them, am i crazy? i mean it!"

or:

statement: "i'm going vegetarian! i mean it!"
translation: "i'm going to not eat meat for a whole four days and then get cranky and emotionally eat a wendy's cheeseburger and then give up meat again for another five days until we go to the renaissance festival and i have to eat a turkey leg and then i'll give up because who are we kidding anyways? i mean it!"

or this one:

statement: "i'm going on a cleanse with chris! salads and fruits and veggies, only! i mean it!"
translation: "but tonight i'm going to eat a whole can of crescent rolls in preparation for the cleanse, and then tomorrow night after i eat quinoa for the first time, i'm going to give up on the cleanse because who eats just that crap, am i crazy? i mean it!"

or maybe this one:

statement: "i'm going to become a runner again! i mean it!"
translation: "i'm going to write all of these running goals in my weekly planner and this will motivate me until i do it for a few days and then realize a month later that i've been not-so-discreetly crossing those previously written goals off every.single.day because who are we kidding anyways? i mean it!"


guys, i suck at willpower. i mean it.

and i've come to realize that this is probably something i need to remedy before we start the kids talk? but that also, this mostly only applies to comments made related to self-improvement? so, maybe i just need to stop setting self-improvement goals.

stop the goal setting! down with self-improvement pursuits! just be free and let yourself be!

oh, the sweet sounds of the anthem of apathy. 

cool

guys, i really did buy children's sized shirts and pair them with jean skirts, and carry around a toy walkie talkie.

lately, i've been considering what it might be like if i didn't cut my hair for the remainder of my time in cambodia (let these locks grow, motha sucka!)  we're looking at one year + left, which would be quite a hefty sum of months (can months be measured in terms of heftiness? let's say yes.)

is growing one's hair to one's butt still an in thing, or did that end when one left the 1980s and entered the modern era?

perhaps more importantly for you to please to be considering, is this:
was it ever an in thing, or is my warped growing-up-in-idaho vision ('tis a REAL thing, that vision; gives me headaches on the reg, it does!), striking me down again with memories of things that were "cool" for le idahoans but were "outdated" and "horrendous" for others? others, as in, those cool people who lived "back east" or "down in cali" and drank things like avocado shakes and ate sushi every morning on while zipping to work on their five-lane highways? perhaps most importantly is for you to please not tell me that it was in fact not cool to perm your bangs or wear maroon tinted glasses. and don't even get me started on sports goggles.  this homegirl knows that was never cool in the mainstream, but damn if i didn't rock those plastic spectacles as i frolicked on the soccer field.

original hipster sports goggles, one might even say. (and one does, it should be noted.)

speaking of things that were cool in idaho, you know how in napoleon dynamite nearly everyone is wearing clothes from the 70s and 80s, rocking those puffed sleeves, and jordache jeans, and prom dresses straight outta carrie?

we'll, i'd like to state for the record, that we did not dress like that in the cool part of idaho.

(please to be forgetting that napoleon dynamite was filmed less than 60 miles from my hometown. mmkay?)

ok, some idahoans did do dress like that. i mean, sleeves are routinely added to prom dresses and high schoolers do often shop at the local thrift store to build up their wardrobe.  but one was church-imposed modesty rules and the other because we thought it was cool? which it was cool, clearly, because i rocked the children's sports tees and did so with aplomb.

and, as we've previously established my cool factor (see above: sports goggles), you know you can trust me when i say, those size 10-12 and 14-16 tees were the bomb dot com. (bomb-diggity, you might say, if you wanna be cool like me?)

can we also discuss how cool-as-ice topher has become lately?  as in, he has somehow managed to absorb all of the things the cool kids are doing on the interwebs lately, wherein they type their physical movement to help us picture their response?  see, in short, this text of late from the hustophermachine:

evil glare. that was marked for rum. very happy you enjoye (sic) it.

humma humma wha?

by golly, next he'll be texting me:

side look. you know what i'm saying. winks.

because somehow in my imaginary text world he sends me suggestive texts? which has happened, like, never? but he does send me very sweet and sappy texts. i got a few of those this week. which totally made it all the better when i walked into the kitchen and...well, let me text-narrate it for you.

stops in tracks. why is the cabinet door open again? CHRIS WHY DO YOU KEEP LEAVING THE CABINET DOOR OPEN? stalks to the cabinet to close the door.

to which the response was:

pauses movie. i've only been in the kitchen once today! oh it was probably me. sheepish grin.

guys, i just can't take that sheepish grin, texted or otherwise.

he's just so cool.

by the by, we don't have a cabinet with doors? we have this built-in-the-wall shelving unit that has glass partitions and/or screened-sliding-shutters? and we call it a pantry? because we long for a small part of america?

and that's the end of this fantastic, important, dare i say, cool, blog post.

tell me how cool you were are.

for the record, hermione would be a fantastic middle name

so i just found this fantastic essay, written in response to a different essay, but most importantly, an essay that speaks to my very book-loving soul.

recently topher and i began a year long gin game (you know, you play with cards) that will culminate in a fantasmic trip to an imaginary prize counter of our creation.  we're keeping score for total points overall, total wins, number of wins over the other spouse, number of points over, etc.

essentially, we've allotted "points" to each of the categories and upon the conclusion of our year+ of gin games, we'll each have some points to spend at our self-devised prize counter.

what i'm most excited for? not trading in for a meal of my choice, prepared by chris, or an early morning dog walk, but this, a prize of my own creation:

one pregnancy/baby related decision.


in theory, i'd spend this on choosing where we'll have our child, or whether or not we find out it's sex, but i'm anticipating that we're actually on the same page when it comes to those things.

i'm going to save my decision for something i've always wanted:

the chance to give our children a middle name from literature.

chris, in his rational way, is adverse to this given that we've already decided to give our future children family middle names.  and, logically, he's against giving our children four names.

as are most of the people we've shared this debate with?! which lends me to wonder why i am friends with all of these rational, even-keeled people?! where are my passionate, overzealous friends that support decisions simply because they seem illustrious and different and exciting?! is it because i am too passionate/overzealous/different that any opportunity to friend these people was overshadowed my own huge personality? let's not answer that.


this all brings us around to the essay that was making the tumblr/internet rounds nearly a year ago, but which i just discovered and in my passionate, overzealous way fell head over heels in love with, and believe it to perfectly support my desire to give our children a literary name in line with their curious, meandering, unique future personalities, experiences and world perspectives.

so yes, i do believe that hermione is a perfect second middle name for our future daughter, and i've got two fantastic literary middle names picked out for future sons, one of which is actually from CHRIS' favorite books and resonates dearly with both of us.

thus, for my husband, who loves and hates my ability to disappear into a book, my incredibly-heavy handbag with a book always in tow, my pleading eyes as I silently ask for it to be ok to settle into my imagination and current novel on the long (and short) car trips...

and for those who question and misunderstand my long-windedness, my overthinking, my endless pursuit of adventure and uniqueness, my deep belief that josephine march, anne shirley, elizabeth bennett and even hermione granger are my sisters and friends and soulmates despite their lack of corporeality...

to all, i plead, read this, believe this, own this, know this.  and then understand me.

You should date a girl who reads.

by Rosemarie Urquico

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

our future children

i love my husband.

but.

with these sweating genes, there is just no hope for those future kids.


***
dear yet-to-be-conceived chunk monsters,


your mom and dad love you. a lot.  even though we tried to give you lots of our good traits- you know, your dad's even temper and general likability, your mom's overzealous passion and love of reading- we probably passed one of our more unfortunate genes down the line.


more than likely, you're probably rocking sweat stains like this:

you're welcome. and we're sorry.


love,
those people who keep accidentally flinging salty sweat-water in your face while we change your diaper.  it's all in the name of love.


promise.

expletive deleted

a very old picture, circa college years.

i am making myself brownies for dinner, which in itself is probably enough of an explanation about the kind of afternoon i had.

it started as a wonderful morning, full of jaunty walks to buy chris some peach-ring-delicious-imitators and flouncy bicycle rides amongst cambodian drivers that have no real understanding of a traffic circle, and the best beefy macaroni and cheese with two fantastic gals.

which led to the following text conversation with husband:

"you make it on the bus honey? miss you"

"on. it's the broken hot bus. and the woman sitting next to me just called me french."

("barang" is the word all unknowing cambodians call all foreigners. it actually means french. i corrected her, telling her i was, in fact, not french, but american.)

"expletive deleted. sounds like a nice day. sorry honey. trying to figure the logistics of bring you home some barbecue or brownie."

"ha, don't worry about it!"

two hours later

"hows it going, frenchy?"

"well halfway through she began asking me questions in incomplete khmer despite me asking her to please speak more clearly and then another woman asked me the same questions and then original lady told me i would not be so hot if i wasn't fat so i told her i wasn't fat, thank, and skinny is ugly. also it's as hot as van we took last week and the bus driver is going so fast i am terrified we are going to crash and i may die. i am in an incredibly terrible mood and i feel like punching the next person who talks to me and i still have to bargain with the expletive deleted tuk tuk drivers to get home. how are you?"




and that, dear friends, is how the small things that normally are tiny, laughable annoyances- the heat, being called french, the assumption i do not understand khmer, the marvel that i do, the bargaining for everything, lack of safety while traveling, and the lack of any modern conveniences that we take for granted in america- can become an onslaught creating a near breakdown when one does not have the presence of mind or presence of a level-headed husband to serve as a buffer.


but now, there are brownies, and partially reformed-from-melting cookies 'n' creme chocolate bars, and back to the future on asian hbo*!


so, really, we have a good day here people. if you leave out that middle part.  expletive deleted style.


*edited to add: turns out we're talking a back to the future MARATHON people.  my frown is officially upside down!

that's how it goes

Shout out to 2006!

Today, we have some very important things to discuss.

Firstly, why is the movie Batman and Robin so terrible?  Alone, you have three medium-good-in-the-right-niche actors of George Clooney, Alicia Silverstone, and Chris O'Donnell, who are not that horrible in general.  But then you put them together with really horrid dialogue and bad lighting and cheap pyro and you get what may be the worst movie in the entire Batman series franchise.

And you also get the only thing on television. And in a household wherein your husband thinks he's Bruce Wayne, loves Batman and has since his inception in the womb, you get two hours of awkward laughter and groans of lamenting.

It's really just awful, guys.

On that note, have you seen American Psycho?

(Train of thought: Batman-Christian Bale-Newsies-Opposite of Newsies-American Psycho.)

American Psycho is actually a very good movie.  Except that I saw it when I was sixteen and I should have been weirded out by it but I actually liked it?  I watched with a high school girl friend, and we both loved it, but then we also watched Fight Club and she loved it and I hated it.

Still hate it, actually. But American Psycho! Good!

Maybe it boils down to liking Christian Bale far more than I like Brad Pitt OR Edward Norton?  I don't really like Brad Pitt. He's too pretty to be attractive to me. And his eyes are tiny.

Now Harrison Ford. That's an attractive male actor I'll always love.  He's old but hot.

Other important things.

Secondly, I've been meaning to tell you about the two sides to Cambodia.  On the happy side, Cambodians are incredibly generous, giving, and helpful people. They are willing to do many things for the greater happiness of the population.  This was evident the other week when our bus broke down and all the men on the bus got out to push it so it could start again.

And then, two hours later, I was trying to get myself some really terribly almost-delicious cheeseburger and fries, and then it happened.  A body, in front of me, butting in line!  And then another! And then four total people were crushing my bones from both sides! and I remembered:

There is no concept of "line" in the 'bode.

Thirdly, Topher and I disagree about the "name" of this actor:

To le husban' he is Peter from Office Space.  To me, he is and shall always be the cute-but-in-the-end-post-it-dick Berger.

Source here

I mean, he's Berger, right?

And then, fourthly, there's the fact that I'm a an ex-underwear addict.  It's true!  If this were the basement of a church, we'd be sitting in a circle and I'd say my name was Delilah.  And I'm actually an ex-addict.  Because I used to own a ridiculous amount of underwear. I used to be proud of the number but I don't actually want to admit it.  Like, now, instead of being proud of and exclaiming how many raw-cookie-dough-cookies I DIDN'T eat, I have to think of a less embarrassing fake number of raw-cookie-dough-cookies I DID eat.

That made no sense.

But guys. I have lived for six months utilizing thirteen pairs of underwear.  Thirteen!  I'm saving sixteen other pairs. I'm not sure for what? I think I'm just so used to seeing a stockpile of underwear. I'm saving some. Like, for future me.  Because future me, she deserves some super soft never been worn underwear.  Future me should get the luxury of sweating into ultra great nearly America-smelling cotton undies.  HOORAY FOR FUTURE ME! Jealous a bit, I am, yeah.

Somehow, when I began this post I was going to tell you about how jealous I am of Topher's deodorant, his boy stuff, because it absorbs so quickly! and doesn't get stuck to the pits of shirts! and that I sneak wear it all the time!

And finally (sixthly?) I was going to expound on the amazing things that are shelf bras?  Because my boobs are so small that the built in bras in my tank tops that I wear under, well, everything, is all I need?  And I kind of wish everyone could know the joy of a supportive shelf bra?

To round this out, seventhly, Topher would also like it be quite clear that he does NOT like or endorse the movie Batman and Robin.

That's how it goes.

the daily cambodia: advertising

As others who have spent a good deal of time living in other countries will tell you, one of the best parts of the experience can be the daily humorous things you witness as your new country attempts to develop or grow or simply just fold in some of those more Western things that we take for granted in our culture.

In particular, English signage or general wordage can prove quite hilarious.

To begin, let's digest two fine examples of advertising I've seen in the last few weeks.  Perfectly enough, both of these examples come from imports from OTHER Asian countries- Japan and China.

You know you want to buy these  amazing butter cookies that are produced meticulously, delicious loved by all.  Also, you should know that they have adopt advanced technology to make these cookies.

Or perhaps that is simply a general directive to the consumer to avoid being left behind, technology wise?

Get thee to a Best Buy!

Social status is heavily based on the color of one's skin here.  The lighter the better, and they've taken to using everything they can to lighten- or whiten- here.  See above, wherein we've imported a miraculous treatment from China called LOVE Speckle-dispelling & Whitening Distillate Set, which describes itself best as an In-depth Whitening Cleaning Milk Whitening Tender Mend Liquid Skin Life Liquid and Spot Dispelling Cream.

Of course.  Don't forget to use the Tender Mend liquid before the Skin Life liquid, and apply the final cream.

All sales final.

of permed bangs and a 200th post

when i was in fifth grade, i gave my very first political stump speech. the year was 1995, and bill clinton was up for re-election, running against bob dole. as we read our weekly reader, our teacher asked us who we would vote for and i found myself rising out of my seat to refute what a classmate had said about bill clinton being too young for the job and other things they were likely repeating from what they'd heard their parents' say at the dinner table.

that day, i stood my ground on the premise that we could in no way elect bob dole because, quite frankly, the man was too old, and to be sure, we didn't want to elect a president that would all too soon keel over from a heart attack, no?

the best part of the speech, in my opinion, was the enactment of said heart attack i then gave, collapsing into my chair, to much applause from my peers.

(the applause may have been in my mind, as i was quite an imaginative child.)

ponder, if you will, what a ten year old who will go to great lengths to speak out against old men for president will do when given the chance to dress and make decisions for herself?

if you guessed permed bangs, silk purple shirts, overalls and rose-tinted round glasses...

...sadly, you were right.

from a very young age, my mother had very little choice but to let me dress myself, let me advocate for my own hairstyles and make decisions about my general appearance. i'd hazard a guess it was an exercise in sanity preservation for my parents, and perhaps a bit of choice vindictiveness as i now realize, being an adult and all, that there must be something quite satisfying about letting your daughter choose many askance wardrobe options and know that someday, in ten or fifteen years, you'd get to witness, first hand, their self-realization that they were, in essence, insane.  and they should have listened to you.

i'd imagine that's how it'd be anyway.

especially if your mid-twenties daughter continues to do silly things like wear (and actually LURVE) oversized glasses.

i've never strived for stylish.  i've always chosen those things that i think are fun, quirky and silly and worn them. much to my detriment, i suppose.

except for those damn permed bangs.  they were the sad results of me trying to be stylish and cool and up to date.  all of my friends had perms in 1994 and 1995 (we were so COOL in idaho!)  all i wanted in the whole world was curly hair.  my brown, long, straight hair was my everest.

but permanent waves were one thing that cindy put her foot down on.  after what i can only guess were weeks of whining and complaining and maybe even crying, she relented.  but just an inch.  no taking a mile with MY cindy.

and so a family friend/hairstylist permed my bangs in her kitchen on saturday afternoon.

so can you understand when i cringe just the tiniest bit when i imagine having a little girl and having to raise what is sure to be mini-kate, in all her "i dress myself, i choose terrible glasses, i beg for a perm and end up looking like i have a chia pet on top of my forehead for my school pictures" glory?

and that's not even taking into account the dangly skeleton earrings i insisted on wearing in my fourth grade picture, or the velour striped shirt in sixth grade.

some things never change

i share this all with you in the spirit of this being my two hundredth post, and it feels apropos to do a bit of soul sharing on such an occasion, no?


you are now welcome to share your musings on my ten year old self. or your ten year old self. whichever you prefer.




*eta: i am struggling to upload my vlog for tomorrow, so it's more likely you'll get it on monday.  i hope some of you will decide to join in, and in the spirit of this post, share your worst haircuts!*