Hey Big Spender

I have a history of over-spending. I used to love to tell myself that I was helping the economy. Like the economy was my good friend that fell on hard times, and I was doing a good deed or something. My Coach purse, Uggs and new Dior mascara were actually souvenirs of charitable contributions to a worthy cause, similar to those little address labels that St. Jude's sends if you write out a check to help the children. However, I recently decided that if I don't start helping myself instead of the miserable economy, I will need charity. I put on my thinking-cap and brainstormed design schemes for my cardboard sign, but just as I was about to get out my glitter and markers, a miracle happened. I don't want to say too much about it, suffice to say that I won't have to resort to begging yet.

Statistically, the probability of two miracles happening to the same person is very small. I recognize that there probably won't be another one coming, at least not for awhile, so I am learning how to be cheap. Who would have guessed that I might have a natural aptitude for it? My secret is not so much strict budgeting as mooching. I have eaten at least seventeen free meals since returning home, not including the meals that came from the groceries that my mom bought me. Those groceries, combined with the $33 of food that I bought myself, have constituted the other meals. This includes meals that I eat at work, which are brought from home, not purchased at the cafeteria, as was my practice pre-Africa at the cost of about $12 per work day. I also spent about $18 per shift in parking tickets. Now I walk.  

Changes that seemed impossible to make before I left have happened with very little effort since my return. It was easy at first because I didn't have a choice, seeing as I literally had no money when I landed, aside from the $90 in my pocket. Since my miracle, it's been easy to be cheap because the temptation to spend isn't there. I don't want to waste money now that I have friends that don't have any, and literally struggle to survive. So I put my Netflix on hold, refuse to pay for cable, try to drive my car as little as possible, haven't bought clothes or alcohol and got a library card and checked out some books instead of hitting up Barnes & Noble, like my Dad has been preaching since the days when I spent every penny of my allowance in the young adult section of Little Professor Books. Inspired that I only spent $90 in three weeks, my Dad gave me $100 five days ago to conduct a little experiment. We want to see how long I can make it last, not including bills. So far, I have spent $1.70. 

Back to Reality

Well, I am home. The girls behind me on the flight from JFK to Minneapolis were proof enough of that. I think one was doing the People crossword and it was giving her hell. "What was the captain's name in Moby Dick?" she asked her friend. "A-R-A-B?" Yeah, good old Captain Arab. I am no literary expert, but you might want to double check that second letter. The words "Idol" of American Idol and "Inn" of Tori and Dean: Inn Love caused quite a bit of confusion as well. Good thing she didn't opt for the Times. Even if it hadn't been Sunday she wouldn't have stood a chance. In addition to her abysmal spelling and deficient reasoning skills, she possessed a diamond ring on her finger that you could probably see from outer space. Nothing screams "fucked-up values" like a conflict diamond that is big enough to feed the entire population of Bangladesh. It must be true love. Africa must have mellowed me out, because I didn't even start cursing the American education system, the evils of mass media or a God that I am not sure I believe in. I just laughed to myself and took notes on the airsick bag. I still think that she's an idiot and symbolic of a lot of things I don't believe in, but I didn't get angry. I have a lot of work to do on myself before I can be too judgmental.  

***

People have been asking a lot of questions since I've been home. I get a few pretty consistently. What is the best thing that happened? I have no idea how to answer that question. What did I learn about myself? I haven't really had time to do a proper analysis yet. Did I meet someone? Only my future husband. The best came from one of my patients. I am her favorite, and she has told me on numerous occasions that she loves me, which is not normally something you tell your dialysis nurse. When I visited the unit to say hello to everyone her eyes lit up and she smiled so big her whole face was teeth. "Darling! You look fabulous! You've lost weight!" she said excitedly. She is very concerned by me being fat. "Did you find a husband?" She asked it as if I went to Africa to go on a man safari. "Yeah. I did." I said. "Is he white.....or black?" The first part was asked in a normal voice, but she sounded pained to even utter the last part. I hesitated before saying, "He's black." I know her feelings on this particular topic, and she wouldn't consider my man safari a success unless I found a white one. "Oh. Is he nice?" she asked. I told her that he was. "Don't gain weight. Don't eat any bread, and you'll find someone better here," she advised. So much for him being nice. When she asked what he did for a living I knew I was in big trouble. "He's a bartender," I told her, trying hard not to laugh. I thought I was going to have to call a code and administer CPR. "NO BREAD!" she reiterated firmly, as she shook her bony, crooked finger at me. "OK, OK," I said, "but it's so hard." She told me that it wasn't. She thinks that my happiness depends on finding a man, and that finding a man depends on me dropping about eighty pounds. I don't know if it was subconscious sabotage, but I ate approximately three sandwiches today. Among other things. I don't want to find a better man here. 

Life is a Musical

We are usually tired. Some of us have showered, others opt for head wear to creatively cover the evidence that it has been awhile. Hangovers afflict an unlucky or overindulgent few on any given day. Some enjoy a leisurely breakfast, while others hastily throw a piece of toast into the toaster at 7:43 willing it to please pop up with enough time to throw some butter on it. What we all have in common is that at 7:45 one of the staff rings the bell, which is our cue that our butts need to make their ways to our respective vans. And that is how every weekday morning here begins.

There are five big white vans that transport us all to our various placements. For the first three weeks my driver was Malinga. He is my parent's age, and one of my favorite people here. I knew that we were going to click right away. The very first time I met him was when he picked my group up at the airport. He played the most amazing music. It was the perfect soundtrack for my first glimpse of South Africa's shantytowns. "I want to be there when the people win the battle against AIDS. I want to lend a hand. I want to be there for the victims of violence and abuse. I want to lend a hand." That drive is symbolic of my trip thus far. I see the reality of South Africa. I see the seemingly insurmountable problems that face this country, and I acknowledge that I have no idea how they will ever be solved. Simultaneously, there is something telling me that there is hope. After all, look at was has transpired in the last twenty years in South Africa. Miracles happen.

My new driver is Bongani. I have to admit that I was disappointed when the routes changed after the first three weeks, and I lost Malinga. I have really lucked out with drivers, though, because Bongani is awesome. He is in his thirties and is absolutely adorable. He has a gold tooth, and I can identify his van in the morning line-up by following my ears. His oozes the reverberating beats of the gangster rap that he favors. My mornings wouldn't seem complete these days without Tupac and Biggie. This morning really solidified my feelings of platonic affection for the man. He drops Meg and I off first, unlike Malinga who dropped us off last. It is slightly annoying because Scalabrini doesn't open until nine and we've been getting there at about 8:15 lately. I politely brought up the idea of a new dropping order once, but it was shot down. Today was Wednesday, which is the day that the new refugees show up. They line up very early in the morning to get numbers, because we can only take in so many. When Bongani pulled up to the throng that was gathered this morning I muttered something like, "Great...I get to stand on the street with the refugees for a half hour." Meg didn't come today. I was on my own. I have nothing against the refugees, but it is not really a welcoming environment to be thrust into. Actually...maybe the problem is that it's too welcoming, if you catch my drift. I took a deep breath and got out. I tried to muster an air of confidence as I walked without making any eye contact directly into an area of women near the door. I looked back. The van was still there. I looked to my left. Some guy was making a "how you doin'?" face at me. I looked toward the van again. I accidentally saw two more guys leer and wave. I walked back to the van and knocked on Bongani's window. He rolled it down. "You can't do this to me," I said. My hands were shaking. He told me to get in. After we dropped everyone else off and I had moved to the front with him, we had a talk. He told me he didn't know that Scalabrini didn't open until nine. I told him that I informed him last week. He told me that he would be in "big shit" if he had left me there because it was dangerous. When we went back, there was still a crowd but it was smaller, because by that time some had been let in. As I got out, Bongani turned off the van and told me he was coming with me. He led the way through the mass of bodies. It was an unpleasant ten foot walk to the door, but I felt better with him there. It made the inappropriate touches more bearable, because I knew no one would try any shit with him around. He is dropping me off last from now on. I think the experience was all the evidence needed to support that plan. When he took us home after work I made sure to thank him for being my bodyguard. He smiled. God, I love that gold tooth.

A Dealer in the Ghetto

I am really struggling with blogging right now. The fact that the internet was down and I share a computer with forty people doesn't help, but I think it has more to do with me. I can't do this experience justice. I can't write about everything that I am doing, because it would be impossible, for one, and because I want to keep some of it to myself. I guess I will have to be content with a disclaimer: I cannot express what this experience means to me. I will not try. I will just stick to sharing parts of my life here that I think are amusing.

I have taken on a second placement. I go in the afternoons, but only a couple of days a week. The place is called Etafeni, and is in one of the townships, and I help with the after school program. Yesterday was my first day, and it was great. A little girl named Sibongile attached herself to me right away. She asked me my name and tried to teach me Xhosa. She got out a picture book meant for five-year-olds and pointed to the words and spoke them to me. I repeated. She'd point to the cat and say, "ikati". I'd say, "ikati". She'd look at me and smile. "That's very good," she'd say. Then she'd get to a word with a X, C, Q or HL. These are sounds that my white tongue cannot make. Three of them are clicks. I told her that I can't do clicks and she kindly skipped all the words with those sounds from that point forward. She kept telling me how well I was doing. Then Vuyo, the guy in charge, brought in a small, silver suitcase and told me that it was a new game for the kids, and he wanted me to teach it to them. I opened it and found poker chips, dice and cards. There were instructions for Texas Hold 'Em that I couldn't decipher. I didn't want to let Vuyo down, but there was no way in hell I could teach fifteen kids from six to twelve years old how to play Texas Hold 'Em. So I taught them blackjack instead.

I love the randomness of life. If I had to guess, I would expect to be helping Sibongile with her homework. I saw her homework, and it is in Xhosa, so I won't be much help there. Instead, she became the teacher. I also never would have imagined that I would be in a township dealing blackjack to school children. But I was and I did, and like my experience in Africa as a whole, I doubt that I'll ever forget it.

Getting to Know You

When you drive around Cape Town, there are men at the stop lights walking between the rows of cars selling things. Not things like a windshield wash, but things more along the lines of fuzzy dice, beaded and fresh flowers and rugs. I am not a marketing major, but I question how successful this particular strategy is. I can't really imagine sitting at a red light thinking, "What is missing in my life right now? Fuzzy dice. Oh, look, there is a man selling them. How convenient. Let me roll down my window and get out my wallet in the carjacking and rape capital of the world." I guess it must be semi-productive, though, or dozens of men wouldn't be out there risking life and limb dodging cars everyday trying to make a buck. Well, a rand, I guess.

In addition to the strange things they pedal, there are also people selling papers. This actually makes a little sense to me. They hang pieces of cardboard up on light poles with the various front pages of the day's papers glued to them. You can decide which you want, if any. On my way to work the other day I saw a cover that said, "Tutu gets behind gays." I tried to convince myself that the wording was an oversight, but I just know it wasn't.

Work has been going well. Volunteers usually only work until noon or one, but on Monday I stayed all day with Daniel, Fazal, Allie and the other kitchen staff to prepare the food for the homeless. I usually leave while it is still cooking. It was cool to see the whole process for once. When the food finished cooking we made an assembly line to package it into Styrofoam to-go containers. I was in charge of spoons. I had to put one in each container after the rice was dished up, but before the gravy went on top. I am not sure if they give me the easy jobs to be nice, or because they think that dishing up gravy is too huge of a responsibility for me to handle. It could very well be the latter, because when we went to distribute the food under the bridge from the van, some homeless guy opened his and yelled, "No spoons today?" Evidently, I missed one. Our assembly line lacked quality control. Dixon said, "No. No spoons today," and turned his back on the guy. The guy kept yelling about his spoon. I just wanted to tell him to shut up about it already. He probably went through the line eight times like everyone else, and had seven other containers with seven spoons sitting under the tree, which is where they put them while they go back through the line. As if we can't see them.

The refugees want me. Well, actually they want green cards. I was sorting keys the other day, which was the most horrible task ever, because I had to try about a hundred keys in about twenty doors to try to determine which keys belong to which locks. Fazal told me try the key to his heart. I just stuck with the locks. I am not sure what one hundred times twenty is, but I do know that it was the closest I have ever come to going insane. I was in a terrible mood. I was standing at the desk sorting some of the wretched keys, when some guy asked me my name. I told him, and he replied with, "I like you. I like looking at you." I laughed and ignored him until he asked me for my number. Then I decided that I didn't feel like being sexually harassed on top of my already demeaning job of being key detective, so I packed up my keys and told him goodbye. Today, some guy asked me my name, I told him, and then he asked me if I was married. I said no, and kept walking. He told me we'd talk later. Fazal says I should tell them that I am taken, and that my man is downstairs in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Fazal is the potato peeler. Ah, Fazal...that is a story for another day. One refugee actually put it right out there, and asked me to help him get to America. I gave him my apologies, and told him I'd have to add him to my waiting list.

The other day, a vendor at the market asked me where I was from. I told him that I am from the US and he smiled, "The land of Obama," he said. I said "Yes, the land of Obama." As if this wasn't enough confirmation of my support, he asked me who I would be voting for. I told him that I would vote for Obama for both of us. He told me he'd give me a good price. I am going to flaunt my love for Obama at every stand from now on, just to ensure that I get an Obama discount. The refugees love him as much as I do. It's so great.

I like being here so much that I think I am going to stay for an extra week.

Into the Wild

On Saturday, I got my National Geographic on. I went on a Safari, and even though it is such a touristy thing to do, it was so fun. We had this amazing guide who knew everything about the animals. I thought his name was Danny, but no one seemed too eager to back me up on that. Maybe that's why he ignored me every time I shouted things at him. He pointed out ostriches, zebras and springboks. Springboks are the national animal of South Africa and the national rugby team is named after them. They are like gazelles that hop. It is pretty sweet. Danny told us that when they hop, they release the smell of flowers to confuse predators. Danny filled us with knowledge, explaining to us that hippos kill more people each year than lions and crocodiles combined, but they will only attack you if you get between them and the water. He also told us that lions sleep twenty hours out of the day and hunt the other four. When the female lion is in heat, the male mates with her seventy-six times to ensure that she gets pregnant. Leslie commented that being a lion would be the life. What with all that sleeping and sex. While it was a slightly inappropriate thing to say to Danny, I thought it was a valid point. One of the coolest things that Danny told us was that when elephants get old and are ready to die, one of their friends takes a journey with them to a place with plentiful food and water. The two stay together for about three days, and then the young elephant leaves the other. In a year, the younger elephant returns to dig a hole in which to bury his friend. He won't forget to go back. It is true that elephants never forget.

On Sunday, we went to the Cape. We made several scenic stops on the way, including Hout Bay. Farid, our driver, told us that we could go on a boat trip to seal island, or that we could just go over and look at this guy with a seal on the pier. I went over and there was this massive seal staring lovingly at a haggard-looking man. I was appalled when the guy bit down on a piece of raw fish, and the seal took it out of his mouth. I looked around to see if anyone else was about to lose their breakfast, but they were all oohs and ahhs. When he kept doing it, I decided to take the tour to see the normal seals in their natural habitats, without skinny, nasty sugar daddies. It was worth it, because Seal Island was a small patch of jagged rocks completely covered with seals. It was beautiful. We traveled on to the cape, and had lunch at the restaurant there. Someone pulled into Farid's spot, and I thought that he was about to go postal on their asses. He jumped out of the van, and yelled at them in one of the many languages here that I do not speak. We parked them in and didn't get killed, so it was enjoyable. We went up to the lighthouse after lunch and took pictures of the Cape of Good Hope. Then we went to the bottom and stood at the end of Africa. It was one of the most beautiful places that I have seen. On the way home we stopped at Boulders Beach to check out the penguins. There were several whales swimming close to shore. None came out of the water other than to skim the surface for air, but it was so cool to know that they were right there. The wildlife here is spectacular.

Happy Birthday Madiba!

Nelson Mandela is ninety today. It is an excellent reason to celebrate. Last night we went to a club called Tiger Tiger and partied. The drinks were two for one and they had a fashion show. Then we danced the night away...well, part of the night, anyway. We have to be home early on weeknights because we have a curfew due to having to work in the morning. On the way to work we jammed to songs about Mandela. Today for lunch we had a braai, or South African barbecue, in his honor, complete with balloons, pictures and even a cake. We sung him "Happy Birthday" in, like, three languages. I think we are going out tonight to celebrate more.

Work is going well. I worked in the kitchen with Fazal and Daniel again today. Some random Italian guy named Luigi passed through and thought that I introduced myself as Miami. He was like, "I'm Rome." Desiree said, "No...it's Annie." A few minutes later, the misunderstanding officially became my nickname when he asked me for help. He couldn't get through the door with his hands full because it was blocked. "Miami, can you move this mop and bucket ?" he asked. Yeah, if you stop calling me Miami, asshole. I moved it. Then he came into where Fazal and I were talking and told us he wanted to tell us something in his language. He started pointing at us and shouting in Italian. Daniel, the Italian chef that I work with, just laughed. Then Rome left and I asked Daniel what he said. He told me that it would be impossible to translate. I said, "Tell me Daniel." He reiterated that it would, in fact, be impossible to translate, but also that we probably didn't want to know. While the food was cooking Daniel and Fazal got out their guitars and started playing. Daniel sang in Italian. It was pretty sweet, which is a word that I am trying to teach my new friends to incorporate into their vocabularies. On Monday, I am going to stay at work to take the food to the homeless people. Usually, I leave before they do that. I guess there are three hundred people, and that it can get a little crazy. Melanie said that they don't usually let girls go, but I am going. Fazal said he would come with me. I am so appreciative that I work with such cool people. I came to South Africa to hang out with an Italian and a Zimbabwean. Who would've guessed?

Workin' It

We had a false-alarm the other night. Alarms started blaring after we had just finished an informal discussion of how dangerous Cape Town actually is. We have panic buttons throughout the homebase that we are assured summon armed response in less than three minutes. I am not getting out my stopwatch, but after seeing how things work in Cape Town, I wouldn't put much money on the validity of that promise. Welcome to the rape capital of the world. After the alarms started ringing, we all just congregated downstairs and found out that it was the neighbor's alarm. It makes me wonder what is going on over there, after the blood-curdling, gut-wrenching scream that I heard the other night. I feel bad for Bradley, one of our security guys. He must have shit his pants. Twenty American chicks, four guys and the odd Canadian are a lot of responsibility.

The last two days of work have been great. Yesterday was Wednesday, so they had the welcoming program for the new refugees. When I got dropped off at Scalabrini, there was already a crowd waiting to get in. I interviewed them trying to remember the details that Barbara taught me the previous day, and did a horrible job at first. The first guy didn't really speak English, and that did not help anyone. The other problem is that I am American and ignorant and don't know shit about Africa. Some guy's permit said that he was from Zaire. I am supposed to write the route that he got into South Africa. Uh, where the hell is Zaire? Apparently, it is the DRC, but why wouldn't they just write that? And what do you put down for nationality? Shit, I should have paid attention in high school. Not to mention that the awareness that everywhere writes dates differently than we do in the US does not make it any easier to actually do it correctly under pressure. Some guy was telling me the dates like, "Twenty, zero-two, two-thousand eight." When he realized how hopeless I was. I am sure that they thought that I was the biggest moron ever. Imagine fleeing your country to escape political persecution, jumping borders with only the clothes on your back, walking miles with no shoes, and settling under a bridge in a country whose inhabitants practice xenophobic attacks. Then you go to seek assistance and you find ME. Me and my idiotic smile. I am officially a bimbo. Sorry Dad. After that, I helped Bella sort donated clothes. I didn't feel as stupid, but it wasn't as fun either.

In the afternoon, some of us went to Green Market Square and the Pan-African market. The weird dude that I bought a bracelet from actually got mad at me for bargaining with him. Whatever. Some kid tried to get us to give him money, but we are not allowed. We told him that we were strictly prohibited, but he was persistent. He told us not to be shy. He could tell that we wanted to buy him food. He told us we wouldn't get in trouble. Finally, he went away.

Today, I got to teach an English class. I taught them about family relationships using the possessive. Maggie and Lisa are Bart's sisters. Homer is Marge's husband. They are weird about The Simpson's here. In the middle of a square in the city they have a huge African sculpture with Bart's head protruding out of it everywhere. They also sell Playboy grooming products in the pharmacies. I don't get it. After playing teacher for an hour and a half, I went down and made soup for the homeless refugees with Fazal, who is only twenty and a Zimbabwean immigrant. He is fun to talk to. Or maybe I should say listen to, because he never stops talking. Daniel is Italian and very nice, but more quiet. They are both musicians. I suck at peeling potatoes, and cried like a baby when I cut the billion onions that were needed for the soup. I have absolutely no problem with feeling like an idiot, though. Must be the maturity that comes with my old age. It was a fun day. I love my job.

Contrast

I have been here for three days. They have been amazing. On Sunday, we had orientation and took a tour of the city. We stopped at the beach and then drove past the beautiful beach-front property that goes for about $250, 000 here, which seems unbelievably cheap to me, as it is the Malibu of Cape Town. We also drove to the top of Signal Hill and took in the view of the city and Table Mountain. Cape Town is a really beautiful place.

Yesterday, we got our first dose of reality. We took a township tour which stood in stark contrast to the drive around the city the day before. The condition in which the majority of Cape Town's population lives is indescribable. Our tour guide, Richard, was awesome. He explained life in the ghetto in detail to us. He told us some really interesting things, like how the government tried to hide the reality of the townships by putting decent looking houses around some of the ghetto's borders so passers-by wouldn't see how atrocious they were inside. He took us into a barracks that was originally put up to house men who worked in the city. Now it houses multiple families in each dorm-sized bedroom. We met a woman who lived there and shared her twin bed with her husband. Her small children slept on the floor next to the bed and her bigger kids slept in the common kitchen. The other two single beds in the bedroom belonged to two other families. There were five other bedrooms sharing the common kitchen. The kids in the townships are amazing. They went crazy over us. If they see a person with a camera they start posing and singing and dancing. I took video of five little guys singing, "Ole, Ole Ole Ole". The sense of community was unbelievable and the beauty in that, and in the people themselves, far exceeded the glamour of the beach-front houses we saw the previous day. At the end of the tour Shamiel told us the reason that we were headed back into the ghetto. Richard, our well-spoken, educated, multi-lingual tour guide, that I had a little crush on, needed to be taken home.

Today, I went to my job for the first time. It is a great placement. I met everyone who works there and got a tour first. Then I helped a young guy from Zimbabwe find a pair of shoes, pants and a shirt from the donations at the center. Unfortunately, the majority of the clothing donated is for women and children, so we had a fairly difficult time of it. He had a great sense of humor, but despite my laid-back demeanor, our almost-fruitless labor broke my heart. He asked me to pick him out a nice shirt. I gave him a red flannel one, but just wished that I could take him to the mall. I asked him questions about himself and he told me that he was alone in South Africa and that he lived under a bridge. After that, I learned the process for interviewing the new refugees that will be coming tomorrow. Then, I went and made parcels to give the newcomers that contained a small bag of maize meal, and smaller bags of beans, sugar, rice and a can of spam-type meat. If I understand correctly, this and six rolls are to last a person for two weeks. I made a hundred packages, and am excited to go to work tomorrow and meet the people who need them.

South Africa reminds me every day, several times a day, that nothing is black and white - not people, not politics and not the complex social issues that face South Africa, the US or the world.

Africa at Last

After a short flight from Minneapolis to JFK, I waited at the wrong gate - the one listed on my boarding pass - for like three hours. It was entertaining, though so possibly worth it. Across from me was a billboard that said "EMBRACE CHANGE (but please don't go groping it)". Some guy danced, literally danced, past me singing to his iPod. All I caught was "like a puppet on a string," before he pranced off. A little Chinese kid kept coming over and asking me questions like, "Where is the lestloom?" I didn't know. He also asked me, "What time is it?" I told him one, but it was one forty. I am not very reliable, but must look approachable. The crowd just kept getting more Asian by the minute, and no plane landed at the gate I was waiting at, so I decided that something was up. I went to a monitor and found out that the gate was changed, and when I got to the right gate there were people everywhere. I quickly learned that the flight was overbooked. Shit. I better have a seat after waiting for three hours. I met a couple of the other volunteers before we began boarding. When the guy scanned my boarding pass it made an ominous beep, and he violently tore it up. I asked him nervously if something was wrong. He told me that I had been upgraded without making eye-contact. I have noticed that this malady seems to be a common affliction among airport employees.

Flying first-class is great. I have never done it before, but hope to do it again soon. They fed us all the time, and my seat reclined to sleeping position so I slept comfortably for most of the flight. When we landed in Dakar, Senegal I felt it. It was a lump in my throat that made me want to shriek and jump up and down and cry tears of joy all simultaneously. It was the realization that I am in Africa. I was so content to know that. Senegal was something else for the hour that I was there. It was already pushing ninety degrees at four a.m., and the humidity followed the Senegalese bomb sweeping crew onto the plane. They took apart all our seats and made us identify our luggage. If a suitcase went unclaimed it got thrown off the plane. Part of me wished that I could stay in Senegal for a couple days, by I left without touching land or any of the hot airport personnel.

I arrived in Cape Town yesterday evening. I made it through customs without any trouble even though I didn't have documentation of a return flight. I didn't have any baggage issues because I carried it all on. The guy in customs scared the shit out of me though. He asked me what I was bringing into the country, as he inspected my Goldfish crackers. I think he was hungry. He gave me grief about my new phone, asking me if I was leaving it in the country. I told him no, but it wouldn't surprise me. Someone would probably steal it. I decided not to go into possible scenarios with him, though, and just let him keep harassing me. He asked me why it took me so long to get to customs since my flight had come in a good bit earlier. Was this really customs? What the hell? Inspect me for fruit and illegal weapons, and let me go about my business.

Our drivers brought us to the home base, playing funky beats that I would expect from Africa. We definitely passed townships on the drive. We arrived at our house and found our rooms, which are named after the eleven official languages of South Africa. I am in Afrikaans, which is great because I can pronounce it. I have a fireplace, toilet and three roommates. The house is huge, but it's not the Four Seasons. During my first shower I had to stand in a foot of one of the other volunteer's used water. The drain is a little slow. I am not sure whose runoff it was, but my favorite coping strategy is denial and I think it's just better if it remains a mystery. The other constant reminder that I am not staying at the Ritz is the beefed up security. The house is surrounded by a cement wall, the slats of the metal gate are spiked so no one can jump it and it is only opened by our security guards. There is razor-wire and electric fence running around the top of the whole shebang. The view of the mountain is beautiful, if you can look past the bars on the windows. I am optimistic, though. This country has survived a lot and I am determined to survive, and hopefully fall in love, with it.

Tickled Pink

I am not ready for Africa. 

Meghan bought me a purse for my trip as a going away present, and I am still about one-third packed, but other than that I can't say much for myself. I bought all-purpose shoes to take, but they give me blisters. I read Mandela's A Long Walk to Freedom sometime last fall, but that is the only book on my pre-Africa reading list that I have read cover to cover. For the last two days I have been reading Chelsea Handler, and I don't think anything she has to say about her one-night stands is going to be valuable to me in Africa. At least, I sure hope not. Last night, instead of packing or tackling the mountain of laundry in my room that rivals Everest, I chatted online with a Colombian that I thought was mine, but turned out just to be some creep with the same name. The conversation got a little out of hand, but as usual it was all my fault. 

 

Annie: What are you doing? 

Colombian: watching tv 

Annie: Probably porn. 

Colombian: yes porn

Annie: Really? I am so good.

Colombian: do you like porn?

It was a strange question coming from my Colombian, because he should know what I like by now, but I thought it could be some kind of kinky game he was playing. I still had my guard up though, because he hadn't spelled anything wrong yet, so I was suspicious. 

Annie: Do you have anything interesting to tell me? 

Colombian: You tell me something interesting 

Annie: I have nothing interesting to tell. 

Colombian: then let's talk about porn

I knew it! He was found out. My Colombian would have never remembered the apostrophe in the word let's. But I didn't want to jump the gun and ruin the kinky stuff if I did have the right guy, so I asked him to tell me something only he would know. He told me he knew many things. I asked him what color the walls in my bedroom are painted. He said pink. I said adios. My walls are NOT pink. Later when I decided to be old-fashioned and just call the real Colombian, I asked him what color the walls in my room are painted, just for the principle of it, and he said green. My walls are blue. An unmistakable blue. Although, when I told my roommate Logan the story he started nodding when I got to the part about the Colombian saying my walls are green. Logan was like, "Yeah, they're blueish-green. I'd call it aqua." Um, okay. I guess Pottery Barn calls it schooner, which isn't helping anyone, and is just as damn bad as calling it aqua. I definitely learned my lesson. You should always make sure that you know who you're chatting with on Skype, and guys are clueless when it comes to colors.

Oh, yeah. And maybe I should start thinking about packing.  

Wedding Belles

Apparently, I have reached the age where it has become unacceptable to attend a wedding dateless. I made that mistake on Saturday when I attended a childhood friend's nuptials with my friend Kathy who is also single and received an invitation to the blessed event. We decided that it is too much work to find dates, and far to awkward to sit through a ceremony, reception and dance with someone that you don't really like in the case that you are actually able to find some poor sucker to agree to it. Unfortunately, I don't yet have a throng of men on hand to call upon in these situations. So Kathy and I went together, arriving seconds before the bride's entrance, because we underestimated the distance and overestimated our navigation skills. We were good girls, giggling only on occasion and our whispered critiques were mostly nice. I didn't gag once during the slide show, I waited patiently to congratulate the happy couple as they dismissed us by rows and I even stood with the bubble-blowing throng waiting for the couple to exit the church. However, I did not actually blow any bubbles. I have my limits.

On the drive to the reception, Kathy and I discussed the wedding down to the finest detail like any good single girls would. We wondered what time food would be served at the reception, seeing as it was only three-thirty by this time. We figured it would probably be at five, and considered stopping for a snack because we were so hungry. In the process of making that decision I spotted a Mercedes dealership and gushed to Kathy about how the only car I had any aspirations of owning was a Mercedes. We were about to pass the dealership when she asked me if I wanted to test-drive one. Was that even an option? Of course I did. So I shouted an affirmative and she whipped into the lot. We perused for a minute when Larry approached. He asked us what we were looking for and I pulled the old I'm-blond-with-big-boobs-and-I-don't-spend-a-lot-of-quality-time-using-my-brain routine. I told him that I didn't know much about cars. He assured me that his thirty years in the business would make up for my deficiency. He asked us where we were from and I let Kathy field that one. She gave him the name of a town near our hometowns and told him that we were just passing through for a wedding. We didn't even have to lie and he offered to let us take the car out. 

It was a good ride, and Larry provided decent conversation. One of his sales pitches was that Mercedes were theft-proof. He backed this up with a reference from Gone in 60 Seconds, in which the only car on the list that they are unable to steal is the Mercedes. He also told us we could do whatever we wanted with the car, but warned us that any tickets were our own. I asked him if anyone he took out had gotten a ticket and he said that one guy had. He had been going one-fifty in a fifty-five. He told us that the car we were driving would not go faster than one-forty. We told him that could be a problem. It wasn't until he asked us who would primarily be driving the car that we realized that he thought we were a lesbian couple. Discussing it later we realized it made perfect sense. We went to a wedding together, we claimed that we lived in the same town and our story didn't hold any water if we were two single twenty-something females EACH looking to buy a Mercedes. When we left he only gave us one business card. Why would we need two? We could just share it like we were going to share our Mercedes. 

We continued our jaunt to the reception much like Hansel and Gretel with the breadcrumbs, following the trail of purple and silver metallic streamers that cut ties with the couples faux-vandalized car. We, too, lost the trail and got detoured on our journey desperately seeking food, but we eventually found the Holiday Inn. We waited with our fellow guests for the doors to the reception hall to open. We made the mistake of going to the bathroom, because we came out to find that they had opened in the meantime. By the time we got in and staked claim to an empty table for eight, there were hardly any unseated guests. None came to our table. We sat alone at a table for eight. It turned out to be okay, though, because we each ate two salads and, like, three rolls. When an old co-worker and neighbor pointed to Kathy and asked me "Is that your...friend?" with a weird look on her face, I resolved to bring a date to the next wedding. For Christ's sake, we were all from a town of eight-hundred where both Kathy and I worked with this woman. I didn't bring a man with me. Big deal. I shouldn't have to defend my sexuality.   

After eating, we decided to make a trip to the liquor store. Being the classy girls that we are, we knew we needed to get drunk and that it wasn't going to happen on four dollar drinks from the cash bar. I would say, without judgement, that Kathy is one of the most indecisive people I know, so our choice of booze was not an easy decision to make. We had to factor in potency, mixers and the size and material of the bottle because we had to be subtle back at the reception. At the checkout we found smallish plastic bottles of rum. We got yelled at by a cop because Kathy sized it up to see if it would fit in her purse. Right as I was telling her not to put it in her purse because the cop would think she was stealing he said loudly, "You are putting a bottle in your purse with a cop watching," in a tone that made it clear that he thought we were the dumbest bitches he had ever seen. After all, we were pretty conspicuous with the hundred-pound thief wearing a very short, BRIGHT YELLOW dress. Shit, we might act stupid, but we weren't THAT stupid. I defended Kathy by saying, "She's not stealing it, she's just seeing if it will fit in her purse!" We bought two bottles and walked out, heads held high. 

I didn't end up getting drunk, but my high-school principal did. That was pretty funny. I also got to catch up with a few family friends from my hometown that I haven't seen for awhile. It was a good day despite my sobriety, especially considering that I got to drive my dream car for the first time, and was the accessory to the alleged attempted-theft of Malibu by an upstanding pharmacy student. The wedding also made me think, which I generally appreciate. The bride graduated with me, and subsequently met a guy, converted her religion and is now MARRIED. It caused me to think about my choices. I wonder if I really can have it all. If I can, am I making the right choices now to achieve that? If I can't have it all, what will I sacrifice? But then I realize that I am happy right now, going to weddings with my girlfriends and taking off for Africa because I want to. I am happy with no degree, no career, no religion, no man and no kids. I love the unknown, and probably won't have any of the aforementioned things until I decide that having them outweighs the thrill of not having them. I am not ready to know who I am going to spend the rest of my life with, or praying to or working for. Right now I am content with the limitless possibilities that lay before me.      

Perverts and Creeps

Last night I went out. On a Monday. In Rochester. I don't think I need to explain why my expectations were low. Although, as Meghan and I approached the first bar, I thought of a memorable night there which happened on a Monday last summer. I remember that it was a Monday, because going out on a Monday feels weird. The patrons are older, have more liver damage, are either perpetually belligerent or perpetually catatonic and are considerably more desperate than your average weekend crowd. The upside is that ordering a drink is not like being on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. It is, however, an environment where it is wise to have a man with you upon arrival. For obvious reasons. Statistics show that it decreases cases of sexual harassment exponentially. My friend Brandon wouldn't come because he had to work at five the next morning, so Meghan and I were on our own. We walked in, counted seven people and headed out the back door without even buying one drink.

We went across the street to my roommate Jenny's favorite bar and grabbed a booth. At first, it was pretty lame. The guy in the next booth was trying to get us to join him, but he was denied and Meghan and I immersed ourselves in girl talk. A random guy stopped at our booth, interrupted us and tried to start a conversation. He was either too drunk to notice, or too obtuse to care that our body language was anything but inviting. He asked to sit down. Being the passive-aggressive creatures that women often are, we allowed him to join us, but attempted to get rid of him by appearing to be completely uninterested in anything he had to say. It was lost on him. He thought we were shy. That is when I decided to acknowledge his presence and speak. I told him that I most certainly was not shy, hoping that he would infer that I was simply bored. He kept talking.

It turned out alright because he ended up being bait. Bait Boy knew this kid that I wanted Meghan to stop because she recognized him from work. She wouldn't do it, even though she knows I have a weakness for black guys. But divine intervention put this guy right at our booth when he stopped to talk to Bait Boy. He joined us, and we found out that he possesses beautiful eyelashes and the ability to make a conversation a lot less boring. When we were talking about Meghan moving to the south side of Chicago, and me going to South Africa, Bait Boy informed me that South Africa has the highest rate of car-jackings anywhere. I was less than fascinated by this tidbit of information. I told him that they also had the highest incidence of reported rape in the world. His mind was still on the car thing. He said, "But I guess that you won't be bringing your car there..." To which I replied, "Yeah, but I will be bringing my vagina." This caused Eyelashes, whose attention seems to wander occasionally, to take notice. "Vagina? What about your vagina?" he asked. Meghan said, "She's taking it with her to Africa." He said that he hoped so, and that he didn't realize it was a snap-on. Later, when we were talking about street smarts, and I said that I had them, he laughed and said, "I don't know too many niggas sittin' in the hood sayin', hey, 'Let's go to Africa tomorrow.'" Point taken. Later when Bait Boy mentioned an after party attended by himself, a guy that worked for him, Meghan and me, we made our escape. We pretended to go to the bathroom and headed for the back door. Eyelashes ended up walking eleven of the twelve blocks home with us. When we were in a well-lit hospital area, he said goodbye. We agreed later that he was the best thing to happen to us all night.

When we got home, we decided that we should go to Perkins. We had plans to go to breakfast in the morning, but it was pretty much a craps shoot as to whether I would get up for it. So we decided to go then. When we were eating, a group of Middle-Eastern guys who had been at the same bar as us walked in. I had chosen to wear a shirt that made my boobs look absolutely fabulous, and I asked Meghan if she ever wondered what Muslim guys, especially ones from other countries, thought about American girls. Take us for example. We went out by ourselves to a bar where we sat with men that we didn't know. We let a stranger walk us to a home where single girls lived without their parents, and where I changed into a shirt that revealed my boobs. Then we went out at three in the morning to get breakfast that we didn't cook, with money that we earned ourselves. While we waited for our cab, one of the Arabs went out for a smoke. As he passed, he told me that there was a spot. "A spot for what?" I asked. He replied, "For you to sit," and pointed to the empty spot where he had been sitting with his friends. This was one of several uncomfortable encounters with that particular group of men, in addition to those with another man who was sitting by himself doodling drawings on his napkin that appeared to be Schizophrenic in nature.

Finally, our cab came and I was excited to see that Dick was our driver. The two of us go way back. All the way to a slutty cop Halloween costume the night my camera got stolen. He has driven me on several occasions since. I told him that he was my very favorite driver because he didn't creep me out. I asked him if I could request him when I called for a cab. He informed my that was against policy. He gave me his private number, and was adamant that I not tell anyone. If he discovers this blog, I will probably end up in a river somewhere. He ran me through the procedure for bootlegged cab rides, like it was a CIA operation: I call him on the special number and he tells me how long it will be. If I don't want to wait I call the cab company's legitimate number. And he is off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Wow, Dick, pretty heavy shit you're bringing me into. Could you run me through that procedure again, but more slowly this time since it's sooooo remarkably different from the regular way that I would call a cab? Then he asked me for my number, and I told him that I didn't have a phone. He told me again not to tell ANYBODY that he gave me his private number. Congratulations Dick, you now rank right up there with the cabbie who asked to see my underwear, and the one that shut off the meter a few blocks early thanks to my two best assets. The cab company must have a quota for creeps and perverts. However, judging by the rest of the night, they don't have a monopoly on them. It was an interesting night, but I think I will stick to going out weekends.

Excess Baggage

I bring too much stuff every time I go somewhere, especially if that somewhere is really far away. When I studied in Ireland for a semester of high school I brought photo albums, books, a couple of my favorite movies, at least five pairs of shoes, a plethora of toiletries and clothes that I did not wear one time during the four months that I was there. My host father, Liam, and my host brother, Jonathon, had to wrestle my suitcase into the "boot" of their tiny Toyota and up the stairs of their house. I am not overly concerned with the incident. It didn't bother me or have any negative repercussions, but looking back it was completely ridiculous. Ireland has book stores, drug stores and movie rental places with movies that actually play in Irish VCRs. It didn't even occur to me that these were options, and to try to pack light. When I went to Austria to see my aunt for Christmas my freshman year of college, I did better. I put my bulky winter sweatshirts and coats in those vacuum pack things that you see on infomercials. I am sure that I struggled with the shoe issue, because I always do, but I managed alright. I still brought stuff that I didn't use, though. I would like to be able to pack like Tomoko, the Japanese student that stayed with my Irish host family for a couple of the same weeks that I did, and who packed in one teeny-tiny suitcase that made me wonder where the other one was. My aunt Sarah has travelled the world with, like, two pairs of black pants and three shirts. Or so she says. I think she's telling the truth, because when she comes home she is always asking to borrow my grandma's socks, or jacket or sweater.

My desire to pack lightly for Africa started out innocently enough, as the spawn of two separate rationales that, when combined, convinced me that there could be no other way. Firstly, I want to feel the satisfaction of being able to accomplish my goal of packing for five weeks in a really small suitcase. If I can do that, I will have accomplished something that I have admired others for, and I will not have to lug around an eighty pound suitcase and keep track of a bunch of crap while I am trying to enjoy my African adventure. The other rationale is what really made it clear to me that this was a goal that I should not take lightly. Apparently, "OR Tambo, Johannesburg and Cape Town airports have a serious baggage pilferage problem," according to some reference materials that I received for this trip. Really, what is the point of bringing seventy pounds of extra stuff that is just going to get stolen? I will pack only necessities, and cheap ones at that, in a carry-on that will stay with me from my house to Minneapolis to New York to Dakar to Cape Town. No one better mess with me.

I knew that the biggest challenge of packing everything in a carry-on would be the TSA's liquid regulations. Bastard terrorists. So, to remind myself not to go overboard, like I am known to do on occasion, I put a quart-sized baggie in my bedroom. It started when I put a small bottle of lotion in it. Then on a trip to Target, I found these great little packets of Tide that are measured for washing clothes in a sink. I added those to my bag. I could not pass up the tiny body washes for $2.50 at Bath and Body Works, so I bought a couple and added them to my collection. I went to Sephora with my friend Kathy and bought some tinted moisturizer. I threw that in. My bag was starting to look a little full, so I decided that I better prioritize. I made a list of all the liquid things that I would need to bring and started buying them. I felt the pressure that only a triage nurse or a mother stranded at sea with her children could understand when I had to start cutting items. Hairspray was the first to go. I don't even use hairspray in the United States. What the fuck was I going to need it for in Africa? This is not cycle four of America's Next Top Model. Two bottles of body wash? What was I thinking? A bar of soap is not liquid, I could bring that. More devastating was the realization that my Oscar Blandi dry shampoo was losing the race against items like regular shampoo, toothpaste and my new, tiny bottle of Vera Wang Princess, which were all non-negotiable items. You may ask why I needed to put DRY shampoo in my quart-size bag of liquids. It is because it is an aerosol, and aerosols are on the list. I decided that I don't care. I am taking it anyway in a different part of my suitcase and using my powers of persuasion and my good looks to change the mind of anyone who tries to give me any trouble about it.

I successfully whittled my liquids down to the appropriate amount. They fit in a Ziploc. The zip is holding on for dear life, on the verge of busting open at a moment's notice, but it's zipped and that's all that counts. After I won that battle, I started to wonder if I could really fit everything in the minuscule suitcase that I drug up from the basement and put in my room as a constant reminder to pack conservatively. So I put an umbrella, a couple shirts, soap, an extra pair of glasses and my prescriptions for Malaria and traveler's diarrhea inside it just to get an idea of how much space I had to work with. I made the mistake of letting my friend Meghan see the suitcase and it's contents, and she commented, "Wow. You are going to Africa in a month and you are halfway packed." I told her that I would appreciate if she said that I "threw some things in a suitcase" as opposed to saying that I had started packing. I also swore her to secrecy. Finally, I corrected her obvious exaggeration. I would say that I am only about a third or fourth packed.

Tattoodles

Last Sunday, after Logan's little attempt to get some underage ass, I got a call from the Colombian. He wanted to know if I wanted to "accompany" him to get a tattoo, which really meant that he needed a ride. I drive a hard bargain, so I made him agree to pay for the gas and it was settled. Right after I went to the Sex and the City movie I would pick him up. I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, except on Miami Ink of course, so I was pretty excited. I was also nervous. I think the nerves stemmed from the fact that the idea for the tattoo came from me. Let me paint a picture: South American guy with a hot body adorned with a crucifix. In my opinion, all that was missing was a little ink. How hot would a cross or some Catholic virgin or something be? So I told him that he should get a tattoo with the inflection that perhaps only a native speaker would recognize as purely impulsive. It was one of those things that you say and that you mean, but you didn't necessarily mean to say, because it starts something that you didn't necessarily mean to start. So, as we drove to Minneapolis, I asked him approximately a billion times if he was sure that he wanted to do this. A tattoo? It would be there forever. It would hurt. It could get infected. He just shrugged and said that he was sure.

So we made it to St. Sabrina's, where I went with Jenny Boe to get my lip pierced when she lived in that neighborhood, and we checked in. We waited, him impatiently and me nervously, for Pedro to make a stencil of the "Death Before Dishonor" tattoo that he was going to get across his back. It wasn't something Catholic like I had hoped, but it was just about as original. I guess it's a military thing. So Pedro finished the stencil and we went upstairs to get down to business.

I think that Pedro was surprised to see the Colombian's scars when he took off his shirt, both the long one along the left side of his back and the ones that cover his left arm. He was like, "What happened man?" The Colombian told him that he was in the Colombian army and that he was injured fighting the guerrilla. Just like that. Said in a matter-of-fact tone dissimilar to the one that I would most likely use in that situation. To me scars are like little trophies of toughness. The one on my knee? Yeah, I got that bustin' a move on my purple rollerblades back in the day. You can't even see it? Wait until I get a tan. That one on my shin? Fifth grade. Nasty fight with a razor. Apparently I was applying too much pressure. Pedro did ask some questions, but the Colombian gave short answers to those, too. He had been shot five times, and had twenty-eight surgeries total. Yes, there were still bullets inside his body. At that moment I remembered the awe I felt when I had heard all this for the first time. I was reminded that this was a very unique person with an incredible story. I liked that he didn't milk the story for attention, even though it wouldn't really be wrong if he did.

As luck would have it, Pedro was pretty cool. He was very nice like I had hoped, and he was fluent in Spanish, as one might guess by his name, but probably not by his looks. His dad was from Boston and his mom was Chilean, and he had spent several years of his childhood living in Chile. He was a guest artist at St. Sabrina's, but was booked out for months at the shop in Portland that he owned. My roommate, Jen, wants to move to Portland so I thought of her and figured I should get the name of the shop in case I am ever in Portland and need a tattoo.

After the tattoo, the Colombian and I went to Chipotle. It was the same Chipotle that Jenny Boe and I went to during her lying phase. She was wearing an ITALIA shirt and the guys working asked her if she was from Italy. She said she was. They asked her what part and she said the north part. She is from a town of sixty-three in southern Minnesota. This was around the same time that a girl at the mall asked her where she got her skirt and she said that she made it. Completely untrue. She doesn't even sew. It was an entertaining stage to say the least. Anyway, I went first in the Chipotle line and because the Colombian and I are only friends now, I paid for my own food. That is what I do when I am with my other friends. He called me out on it and asked me why I didn't let him pay. I told him that I had money and that I could pay for my own food. I have noticed that I always try to assert my independence when I am with him. Like making him agree to pay for gas so I wouldn't feel like he was using me, even though I really wanted to go with him to get his tattoo.

The ride home was very pleasant. There was good conversation and no arguments or power struggles. I felt like I used to about him. Then the meaning of him having his tattoo forever and my going with him occurred to me, and because I am a person who says what she thinks, I told him. Unlike so many times when we try to communicate, there were no misunderstandings. He got it right away. He could never forget me, because there was a permanent reminder right across his back.

So, last night I had to say goodbye again. I would be lying if I said all these goodbyes have been easy for me. I said goodbye to my best friend Jenny Boe a few weeks ago. She is spending the summer in Venezuela. Two weeks ago I took another of my closest friends, my roommate Jen, to the airport for her flight to Copenhagen for a nursing internship. It has seemed like months since she left. But last night I had to do it again, only this time it is not just for the summer. The Colombian is going home, and as dysfunctional as whatever relationship we have is, I care about him and am going to miss him. The goodbye, like many things in life, did not go how I wanted it to. I was not beautiful, and eloquent and cool about it. I didn't say anything funny or important. I just got mad and started crying, and once I started I didn't stop. That was it and now he is gone. I know that the way Portland reminds me of my roommate Jen, and St. Sabrina's and vicinity reminds me of Jenny Boe, there will be things that make me think of him. But for now I am feeling alone in Rochester, anticipating Africa, thinking about Colombia and waiting for my heart to come back from Denmark and Venezuela.

Sex it Up

When Kari decided to move out, Jenny put an ad in the classifieds at work because we didn't know anyone at the time who was looking for a place. We got two responses. One was from this guy named Ahmed. Actually, his friend called on his behalf, and there was definitely a language barrier going on. I am all about diversity, though, so Jenny and I looked him up on the company directory. Turns out that he is a middle-aged, middle-Eastern plastic surgeon. Don't get me wrong, I don't discriminate against the middle-aged, and I think it could be interesting to have a roommate with a different culture. Kind of like a foreign exchange student. But sharing my home with a plastic surgeon? Now that I have a problem with. I can just picture it. I would wake up, walk into the bathroom and get naked for my shower and my body would be covered with those thick black marker lines depicting where he intended to nip and tuck everything that needed nipping and tucking. I realize that I have probably watched a little too much Doctor 90210, but with a bangin' body like mine it seems like a legitimate fear.

The other response we got was from Logan, an eighteen-year-old kid that works at the hospital. His photo in the directory and his fluency in English were pretty much all we had to go on, but we deemed him non-threatening, and he came over and looked at the house. He was interested, and I wanted to meet him, so we met at school. Our conversation was short and sweet. I asked him if he was going to kill me in my sleep. Any idiot would answer no to this question even if that person was a sociopath. Probably especially if they were a sociopath. But Logan passed my test when he asked me if I was going to kill him in his sleep.

So last weekend he moved in. That was back when I couldn't walk, so I came home from working the longest twelve hour shift of my life, took fifteen minutes to hobble up the stairs and threw myself onto my bed. We made a little small talk as he got ready to go out. I realized the magnitude of those four little years between eighteen and twenty-two when he asked me if I was "just going to lay there on a FRIDAY night." It wasn't even nine. What the hell? He didn't even give me a chance. Oh, who was I kidding...I was not going anywhere. I told him that I couldn't walk and that I had to work the next morning at seven. I am becoming so lame, and I barely even care.

I think things have been going well so far. I now have surround sound on my TV, and he is pretty tidy. Not to mention that it makes for some pretty interesting observations of male behavior. Like when, after an hour and a half phone conversation with some chick, he informed me that girls are complicated. Like every other guy, he just wants to get laid. Insight into the male psyche cannot hurt my current situation.

There have been awkward moments. Well, just one, and it was my fault. I brought the Colombian over, and I wasn't exactly sure how to handle it. Should I warn Logan? But then he wouldn't be able to be in denial about it. So I opted for the sneak attack and got busted upon entrance. He is eighteen, not eight, and he knew what was going down. Sometimes I am a bad roommate, but fuck, I gotta do what I gotta do.

This weekend, when Logan informed me that he was having his underage friends over to party, my ass got the hell out of dodge. For a split second, I considered just staying home in my room. Then I realized that if I was home and this party got busted, I would be arrested. Worse than that, I would have to tell people why I was arrested. I couldn't help but think of that creepy girl who hangs out with much younger kids because she can hook them up with beer if they will be her friends. Everyone knows one. People would think I was her. How did I get myself into this situation? And what was Ahmed doing right now? I'll bet he wasn't trying to get lucky with sixteen-year-old girls. God-willing. Jenny and I joked about our house being a brothel, but in that scenario I was supposed to be a whore not a madam. I went to Meghan's praying that I would not come home to total destruction, or have to witness high school girls' walks of shame. When I got home I entered with caution, but my house was no more and no less unkempt than usual. The girls had already evacuated. All was well.

I think my fears of theft and illicit drug use in my attic have been put to rest. What can I say? I have trust issues, but I think this is going to work out just fine.

We Can Work it Out

Recent evidence suggests that I am some kind of masochist. First of all, I ended up talking to the Colombian again, and I cannot even believe it. I know that I am lacking in the self-discipline department, but sheesh. I really thought that I could sever all ties. If for nothing else, at least for the principle of it. Oh well. I am not going to worry about it anymore, because he is going back to Colombia in a couple weeks. Then I won't have any choice but to not talk to or do other things with him. So that problem is solved.

My other problem is more immediate. I can't walk. As part of my ongoing battle to make myself a better me... blah, blah, blah... I have been seeing a wellness coach who I will call Lisa. I have been seeing Lisa for about four months now. For the first three, I met with her every week. Now I meet with her every two weeks. I feel for this woman. Every meeting starts out with Lisa asking me very cheerily to tell her something positive that has happened since we last met. At first this caused some confusion. Apparently, my social life and drunken escapades, while probably the highlights of my week, are not things she wishes to hear about. I am to restrict my comments to things that pertain to my wellness. I can see in her eyes that she wants to hear that I was able to say no to a really tempting dessert or that I came in and worked out an extra day. I hate to be a disappointment, but nothing like that ever happens to me, and if it did it would not be the highlight of my week...I would be lucky if I even remembered. After I figured out this whole routine I would try to rack my brains for anything remotely impressive, but on several occasions I had to resort to the stammered default.

She'd ask what went well for me that week.
"Uh, well, uh...my goals?"
"What about your goals was positive?" she'd ask.
Shit. Specifics. "I...mmmm.....well, I kind of did them."

One week she finally gave up and quit asking. Of course it was the week I had actually planned what I was going to say ahead of time. I think that was the week I got a cheeseburger, small fries and small Sprite at McDonald's instead of my usual value meal. After a little research I discovered that this meant consuming three-hundred and forty fewer calories. I thought that the effort of my calculations, and the numbers themselves were pretty impressive. I did end up telling her about it at the end. I almost wish I hadn't bothered because my theory is that she had made the decision to stop eating up time by asking, then she felt bad that I came through when she had given up on me. She has asked me at every session since.

After the standard opening routine, we buckle down and examine my progress. We go back and look at the goals that I made for the time between sessions and see if I did them. If I didn't we have to talk about what went wrong. It is kind of lame, but I guess if I can't have these conversations with myself I need someone on the outside to ask me the hard questions. For example, if I made the goal to come to the gym four times a week, and then I told her that I only came three, we have to strategize. This involves a lot of questions that I do not have answers for. If I knew a way to get my lazy ass to the gym every day I would be capitalizing on it. So we have to analyze the hell out of it, and try to make a plan that will get my goal accomplished. Manifestations of these brainstorms have included trying a group class, the thought of which nearly induced an anxiety attack. I did it up, though, and went to a god-awful spinning class twice and a kinesis demo. I have also discovered that it is easier for me to get to the gym when I go with other people, and if I go when there is something on TV that I want to watch. So I guess these analyses are helping a little.

Recently, Lisa and I have been focusing completely on diet and I have started seeing a trainer for my exercise needs. I will call him Greg. He is the anti-Christ. First, I met with him to do an assessment. I had to sit in this thing that measured my percentage of body fat. Then he took measurements of my arms, legs, waist and butt. I had to get on the treadmill and he measured how much oxygen was getting to my muscles, and then I had to do the sit-and-reach to test my flexibility. We determined that we have a lot of work to do. He then made me do the cardio workout that he wants me to be doing on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He stood next to my machine and worked the controls. I almost died. I came back the next day and actually did it again, much to my surprise. Then the following day I met with him to give me my strength training routine. It pretty much sucked, but the real kicker came the next day. It is an understatement to say that my movement was impeded. I had to work yesterday, and by the end of my thirteen hour shift I could barely walk. I took two ibuprofen and two Tylenol and they didn't even touch the pain. I didn't go to work today. I don't think that another thirteen hours on my feet is going to put me on the road to recovery. Plus, I am sick of feeling like a moron, and getting laughed at.

Call me old-fashioned, but I think it is counterproductive when my workout prevents me from doing my job. Not to mention sitting on the toilet, using stairs, bending over or the fact that I obviously cannot workout in this condition. At least I will have a good excuse this time when Lisa asks me why I haven't been getting in my workouts. I really don't think that she can find fault in the fact that I can't workout because of my workout.

Declaration of Independence

Today, after having a particularly grueling phone conversation with the Colombian, I decided to delete all the men from my phone that I do not want to talk to ever again. Would I really ever need the numbers of those two little Mexican guys that I met at Aquarius? I did see them again, but it was at Hy-Vee the next day, and it was a complete coincidence. I was just there buying ingredients for Grandma's chicken broccoli recipe. Nope, they could definitely be deleted. And the amazingly hot T? He was only interested in a one time thing, and I blew that by getting so drunk that I was put on a chair outside the bar with a bucket between my feet. My hair was not spared when I put that bucket to the use for which it was intended. I think I might have even pissed in my pants a little that night. Definitely not sexy. Thank God T and I parted ways somewhere between tipsy and alcohol poisoning, and that Jenny answered my phone and declined on my behalf when he called later. I could delete him too. He isn't from around here, and I do not think that bringing home random guys from bars is a good idea anymore. It seems a little "Secret Lives of Women" to focus on my wellness by day and random sex with strangers by night. I guess G Hollywood's number could go, too. He had nothing to offer but a nine-year old daughter and a demo CD, and he couldn't even find that in his, excuse me, his sister's car when he wanted to give me a copy at bar close. And then there was Rick. The forty-something divorcee that bought Meghan and I drinks all night on St. Patty's. He was super nice, but had more baggage than Louis Vuitton. Did I mention that he was over forty?

I was a deleting machine and it felt so good. So I decided to do what I came to do. I deleted the Colombian's number from my phone for the second time. I don't know how it is in Colombia, but in the US our days contain twenty-four hours. So, after canceling his plans with me again because he cannot spare any time to spend with me between his two hours of English classes and his gym time, I decided that the disappointment that I feel every time he does this is not worth it. I am the one who has a demanding job, college courses and volunteering commitments. I fit in time at the gym and time for myself. I am willing to make time for him, but he can't make time for me. So when he tried to convince me to see him on Sunday instead of today, I had made my decision. I told him that I would not be seeing him on Sunday, or ever as a matter of fact. He said that he'd see me on Sunday. I told him emphatically that he would not. He told me he'd call, and I told him I would not answer. He said he'd leave a message. Damn, he got me there. He tried to make me feel guilty when he asked me if I was going to say goodbye to him. I told him that I was saying goodbye right then, and that if he had anything to say to me he should say it, because it was the last time that we were ever going to talk. He said he'd see me Sunday.

I need to stand my ground. No matter how tempting, I cannot be that girl that says one thing and does another. Unfortunately, I have been her in the past and always feel like shit when I am, because positively reinforcing a man's manipulation and pleas does not help me, nor the plight of women in general. I decided that my failed relationship is not a failure, but a success. As is the case for a lot of people, I think. Ask Tina Turner or my roommate Jen. Both made fabulous comebacks after ditching the losers they were with. I am lucky that I live in a society where a man is an option, not a necessity. I have the freedom to make my own money, my own decisions and even my own babies, all in a land where vibrators abound. I like men, though, and have faith that there will be better ones in my future. If there aren't, hell, I'll just be the crazy single aunt to my brother's future kids. It's a job that I know I'd be good at, and every kid needs at least one.