i am looking back to this time

and missing Bek's Life of HellTM circa 2006-2008. way to make the most of my current amazing life, right? i'm free (and easy hehe), go to paradise every second weekend, have a steady job where i'm appreciated (even today i was verbally appreciated by 3 different people in a superior station, hile other people were being decidedly unappreciated). ninja, house, arguments, insults, chaos, pain. PAIN, i miss the pain - classic stockholm syndrome. this confirms that i am 7000 per cent insane. that part of me pines to be as tormented as i was then. what psychological trickery is this? perhaps it's just ninja that weighs heavily upon my psyche. because surely i will miss this - the present moment or at least Bek's Life of Goodness and PlentyTM -- just as much when it is over -- a lesson, non?

i'm like freaken megamind (the animated movie character, not a person mega of mind) -- now that i'm happy i have nothing to fight for. i miss the angst.

Laos Power

Well, I'm in Laos. Getting my Non-Immigrant B visa for being a TEACHER (something I have yet to blog about, and may never due to the sheer amount of things that threaten to spew forth about it) and eating white carb upon white carb, mostly in the form of baguettes and Laotian instant noodles.

Getting here was done via slow-moving overnight sleeper coffin, (class 2 sleeper, aircon, upper bunk). The upper bunk is cheaper than the lower bunk as it's narrower and doesn't have a window, kind of like something David Blane would film himself inside. Food prices were offensive - 400 baht for breakfast and dinner and a beer. Also, the trip took at least a week, even though the timetable said 12 hours. Naturally, I got in to Vientiane 15 minutes too late to submit my visa application and have had to stay another night in the smallest capital city in the world.

The submitting of the application is a special kind of hell. Three hundred people (that's what the ticket machine said, not me) clutching their visa forms and passports, all with the same look of desperation. The embassy is so used to having this many people there is a dedicated marquee set up to keep you all in the shade to minimise any heat stroke that may occur during the two-hour wait. Once you've had your forms taken from you disdainfully you wait AGAIN to pay, but this wait is inside the building, where there is aircon, the hitch being that you must wait in ABSOLUTE SILENCE. You know this because there's a sign saying, PLEASE KEEP SILENT! Seriously, you can't even talk while you wait for your receipt, you have to sign at people or use sarcastic facial expressions. Luckily, this is not hard for me.

Anyway, tomorrow I go back to pick up my passport, or rather, to grab a number between 1 and 300 (it's not going to be anywhere near 1) and wait another two hours with the same 300 who were there yesterday. Kind of like Sparta, minus the hot guys and honourable death. Funnily enough, one of the 300 is some strange Icelandic dude who always hangs out at the bottom of my apartment block back in BKK. Disappointingly, as I found out, he did not sound at all like Bjork and knew even less English than my students, something for which I no longer have much patience. I've also just realised that I've now doomed myself to a stilted conversation with him every time I see him outside my home, so apologies in advance, weird Icelandic dude, if in future I pretend not to recognise/see you.

Vientaine is nice. Yesterday I hated it but today, having breakfast by the Mekong, I wanted to move here, so the average of that is on the positive side. Tuk tuks are expensive, DVDs are cheap, kip is confusing (especially if you get a bunch of it converted for fun because of the large denominations and also have baht and USD in your purse) and the laab and Beer Laos are as good as legend proclaims. I also got adventurous and bought cured pork with chili wrapped in a banana leaf, which was kind of like cabanossi if you close your eyes and pinch your nose when you eat it.

Apart from Laos- and teaching-related news, K and I moved into another apartment in the same block we were in before. We're on the pool/ping pong/gym/restaurant level, so there's a lot of crap going on right outside our door. The animals like it? I don't know, I don't really care, K and I like it because there is a loft and a nice balcony with a nice view and it's cheap. K is actually scared of going up into the loft by himself - something that amuses me no end - because I don't know, he's superstitious and afraid he'll see a ghost or something (NB. it's NOT creepy at all, it's nice with wooden floorboards and a chilled, calming vibe). So apparently, I have some kind of anti-ghost power because he WILL go up there when I'm there, despite the fact that, when I first found out he was scared, I abused his trust by screaming really loudly when I went up there. Lols.

Work/school is OK. It was almost intolerable the first week and my older students make me want to slash their wrists, but my younger ones are nice. I see them more than I see K, so it's good that we get on. Even my older ones will come around sooner or later. I figure even if I'm a tyrant, Stockholm Syndrome dictates that they'll feel some kind of love and loyalty towards me sooner or later.

Well, I'm going to watch some 30baht DVDs and drink a beer Lao, then probably have some more laab in the restaurant next door and talk to an old, boring white dude in the throes of a mid-life crisis.

Seeya back in BKK!

Meet Justice

Sooooo, the other night K, the bf, brings home a stray kitten who was lingering around the soi in front of our condo. In a massive coincidence or, as I like to see it, a sign from the cat gods, earlier the same night I had picked up the very same kitten and contemplated taking him inside. Some nitwit had put a gold chain around his neck, which has since been removed after twice getting caught in the cat's jaw a la that incident with Ninja when he got his face caught in his collar. I dubbed him Justice after one of my favourite musical electronic French duos AND because he looked like a little street pimp when he had his bling on.

From the moment Justice was seconded into the apartment under the cover of night, Frankie has acted like a pedophile butt rapist. He is so constantly in the cat's grill, or more accurately, with his nose in the cat's actual anus that he must be monitored at all times lest actual penetration occurs. Jack Russells are also cat killers, so there's that potential danger as well, although to be truthful it's more likely a fatality would occur via Of Mice and Men uber-petting, where Lennie pets the puppies - and Curly's wife - to death.

There are some totally peaceful, idyllic times when cat lies with dog without fighting and hissing and whining but these are so rare that when it happens it warrants being photographed. Even then, you have to be fast before the pissing, spitting and head-batting starts with renewed vigour.






















So there's the newest developments from Bek World - no new job, no money, no travels, but an extra mouth to feed, a cat that smells like dog spit and a 200 per cent increase in dog-directional yelling.

Next week: job news. Hopefully good.

Sand

Were you a gynecologist with the appropriate tools, this is exactly what you'd see if you were to take a quick look up my private parts.

Actually just being around me of late would have been enough to hint at my sand-in-vagina status - particularly if you heard the many times I actually announced its presence. Much kudos goes to Stu, who actually still went out with me on Saturday night after I'd already made my condition clear.

Anyway, it wasn't one thing in particular that made me so sandy, it was legion. Like the Thai Government extending the Songkran holiday to all week, so neither me nor Stu will find out about our jobs until next week at the soonest. Jobs we've had the time to hinge our whole lives and futures on in the waiting. Then there's the heat, which has been WAY more comprehensive than normal Thai heat. Like Schitzfest 2009 every time you just want to walk down to the supermarket to get something to inadequately rehydrate with. I'm still also a bit poor, so that adds a few more granules into the mix. Having a ridiculous drunken argument with bf where niether of us could actually articulate what the problem was or ascertain if there even was one to start with, much less if it was proufound and worthy of being classified as an argument. Being at the mercy of an air conditioner that did its best work in the late 70s. Aaaand sand/vagina rant over.

All my friends (two of them, anyway) had much more than sand issue forth from their lady bits - babies, to be exact. Here is one, Sams:

http://plannedtopop.blogspot.com/


Awwwwwn. And Biddy, although she hasn't blogged the baby yet, maybe she will soon, and the two of them can have a blog off.

http://girlupduff.blogspot.com/

Our furr baby - the dog - is growing well, is in fact still growing. He can now escape the bath mid-bath, which is awesome if you also wanted to give the apartment floor and your entire body a quick rinse with dirty dog water. He can reach the bed no problems, and prefers to sleep at the bottom of the it... until we fall asleep and he worms his way up to somewhere between our heads and the pillows. Or uses the bed as a special hurdle track where our kidneys, boobs/balls, bladders or faces are used as footholds as he flings his pygmy arse over us repeatedly.

Generally, he is sweet. And reminds me of a seal. His poos still look like bead and hair macrame, but at least it's easier to clean up when all the droppings are woven together like folk art. And he does get up the grills of all the menacing soi dogs outside, but has so far avoided being eaten by them, and in fact, usually tries to hump their heads. We do not condone shows of lipstick, so anything to do with that is done on the floor, out of our sight.

This is getting somewhat blathery, so here is a picture of the dog's ridiculously fluffy feet and him doing downward dog. Seriously, he has more toe floof than is neessary in any situation I can think of.

Nowt, I tell you, nowt to report

...but I won't let lack of material get in the way of a blog post.

Yesterday my bee-eff left for LA as part of his glamorous rock star lifestyle or whatever. The loving gee-eff in me is glad he's experiencing his first O/S travel in the more or less protective herd of manager and band mates and hopes the five-day trip will be all merriment and wonder.

The shadenfreundine in me, however, kind of hopes that at least a few people he attempts to communicate with in English look at him like he's speaking gibberish and is foaming at the mouth, even though he is just asking for change. It would be a tiny gain for me on the balance sheet of linguistic hardship if he could just once experience asking for a bottle of water and getting a plate of chicken wings instead, or accidentally saying 'hello' instead of 'thank you'.

When he left, the neurotic grandma in me checked planecrashinfo.com every thirty minutes just in case CNN missed a bulletin, but no, he landed safely. Never do this, by the way. And never watch Air Crash Investigation on cable. And never watch CNN for more time than it takes to change the channel, Anna Bloody Coren lurketh there.

What else? I'm not gravely ill anymore. Which is good in a sense and bad in that I no longer need Queen Latifah to change my breathing tube or Angelina Jolie to collect bone shards for me. Frankie is good company... mainly. He pissed on the doona about six seconds after I took it out of the fresh laundry and put it on the bed, but made up for it by catching a gigantic flying cockroach that was trying to hide under the cupboards. Speaking of which, massive flying cockroaches should stop existing. I can deal - *just* - with the non air-borne type, but cockroaches can generally climb up 90-degree angles and crawl across the roof, so what do they need flying skills for? Simply to horrify me is one potential right answer. To land on my head, get stuck in my hair and therefore cause me complete mental breakdown that eventually leads to coma and death is another.

I'm afraid Tom Yum Goong is on the telly and is infinitely more interesting than this, especially with its fake Aussie accents and kickboxing around Cockle Bay, so must go and eat some white carbohydrate while staring at the box.

More news as it doesn't happen...

Bringing out our dead

The Ninja in his kitty condo - almost as big and expensive as my human condo, but with less hair.

Well, I'm sick. Thanks a fucking lot, immune system. There has been coughing, sneezing, intense head pressure and a whole bunch of being hot. I think my head alone may be melting the polar icecaps. It may feature on the next Al Gore/Leo Di Caprio docudrama re: the causes of global warming. And ki moo ('nose shit' - nose-related mucus) is giving hair a run for its money in the seemingly-endless-supply stakes.

The silver lining to this is that I have probably single-handedly infected half of Asia, since I got sick yesterday in Kuala Lumpur and came into contact with at least a thousand different people in various bus stations and airports on my way back to BKK. Plus, the aircon on SE Asian transport is always up WAY too high, making the job of circulating the germs and keeping them alive in transit even easier.

I've decided that KL is also a shitehole. Not all of it, obviously, just the parts I experienced while on this latest visa trip. The KL Indian male contingent around Chinatown specifically would have to be the most annoying group of people in the world. As a white chick walking alone (white women walking with a guy are exempt, I noted) you can't go within a hundred metre radius of a single man without him yelling 'hello', or 'hey lady' or whistling or making some kind of animal noise, usually while staring at your chest. My chest has never felt so welcome in a country before and it was amply covered by a loose t-shirt. If I ever go to that part of the world again, I'm wearing a tent. An actual tent, with even a fly around the outside.

To put a strike in the Malay column, the Malaysian guy on the bus next to me was deliberately taking up more than his side of seat space, then leaning into me on the turns, as if we were playing corners. Also, asking me where I'm from and where am I going. Like, fuck off. I have my iPod on and am staring out the window with my head at an uncomfortable right angle to my body for a reason. Plus, corners is not a pick-up techninque. Hopefully he was rewarded for his lack of manners with a nice dose of Bubonic plague.

Also, I get that it's a Muslim country and all women are required by religious law to don a loose thing that covers everything from their hair to their ankles. My beef is not with this. My beef is with the fact that KL's version of this loose thing is an ugly pastel chiffon shroud bedazzled with cheap plastic beads and usually paired with tarty 'clacky mules', I guess in a bid to be flirtatious. The all black head-to-toe uniform I can vibe with as at least it's black and black is a classic, but KL has some really offensive floaty, peaked, spackled, domed, unnatural-fibred head-coverings. If the point is to deter anyone from finding them attractive, it's working better than probably intended.

Hm, what else did I hate about my trip? Oh yeah, The Ninja totally dissing me. I went to see his fluffy ass - for the first time in six months - and he went completely mental. He wedged himself between his bed and the wall (a 2cm gap) to try to avoid looking at/acknowledging me, then tried to bury himself in his litter box (I have video proof of this on my phone). He also scaled the wire door of his condo like a lunatic, even breaking off nails in the attempt to escape me. So, not the happy reunion I had envisioned. I know I stuck him in quarantine for six months for no real reason, but jeez, build a bridge and get over it, man. A little cat bridge with fake mice and burlap scratching bits on it - whatever.

It's time to lay me down to die now, more about life when I'm not quite so close to death.

Post-Pattaya

I should start by segueing in with the hair thing - I cut mine. Myself. With children's scissors. At 4am. While tripping on stilnox. Considering the circumstances, it looks quite OK. Aarron would politely disagree, but she's a perfectionist and I just saved myself a few hundred baht AND decorated my bathroom with small bits of hair that tenants for decades to come will be finding in their towels and stuck to the soles of their feet.

The music festival was good. Thanks to the usual Thai level of foreplanning and organisation, Stuart and I didn't manage to get our media passes, so we had to mosh with the masses, which was actually OK. Since we're about five feet taller than most Thais we could still see the stage and apologies to that girl behind me if she's reading this (she's so not) for me jumping on her feet over and over again in my Doc Martins. And to the girl in front for me screaming a) "THAAAAT'S MY BOYFRIEEEEND" a couple of times (six at most) and b) words to an entire set in a language I don't really understand. I don't really have Tourettes, I just honestly don't know what the words are, I can only copy the sounds and I'd had a few litres of Chang and jeez, cut me some slack it was a festival, if you don't want some rude, drunk foreign person either jumping on you or screaming loud shit into the back of your head, GO HOME, I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE ONLY 12!

Going away meant, of course, we had to drop the dog off at a friend's. We learned the hard way that Frankie gets reeeeaaaalllly car sick, especially after a big breakfast of fried rice and hair. Picking him up when we got home was just as bad; I have renewed respect for the phrase 'sick as a dog' as he was just puking the whole ride even though he'd had nothing to eat beforehand. On the plus side, he barely moved after we got home, like, for the next twelve hours, so we had some quiet time.

So Pattaya, it's generally a shithole. Apologies again to anyone who might take humbrance to that, but seriously, dude, if you don't think it is, you're part of the problem. And that problem is: massive, shirtless zeppelins of men who should TRY HARDER rather than just paying someone to ignore the fact that they are one all-inclusive buffet away from being airlifted in and out of bed every night. And I type that with all the yen in my jai I can muster.

Anyway, here is my pic of the stage and bf playing, squint if you must:














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