How Do You Know When Your Wanderlust Should Be Over?

One day, four years ago, I left my apartment in Brooklyn and headed to catch the bus which would take me to the job I hated where I worked for a woman who disliked me so intently that she would routinely break out in angry, red hives while talking very close to my face. What can I say? I really rub some people the wrong way. It's like my superpower.

As I passed the gas station on my way to the bus stop, the gas station attendant called out

 "Hey, sweetheart!". 

I was thinking that maybe I looked cuter that morning than I thought until I heard him say: 

"Are you OK, sweetheart? You look depressed." 

I then realized that the misery caused by heading to work where I would most likely see my crazy boss break out in angry red hives from her sheer hateration of me, was now making my local gas station attendant worried about my mental health. I realized that it was probably time for a change. 

With this in mind, I accepted a fellowship in Borneo because I couldn't think of anything more different than moving to an island formerly populated only by orangutangs and headhunters. I also couldn't resist having such a funny line to drop when out and about in Williamsburg. I think this highlights the fact that while some people make decisions based on goals or futures, I usually go with the option that sounds the funniest. This has had some mixed results. 

In addition to not wanting to cause my local gas station attendant any further distress, I was also sorta bored. I had been waiting to become an adult for a long time and it was simply not happening. Sure, I got my Masters and had a real job, but none of the other adult stuff had materialized. I was still single and had 4 roommates and could fit all of my belongings into my parents' SUV. I had been putzing around hip neighborhoods for a long time and was no longer so excited about my options. 

One night I went to go see my friend's band play and this kid came up to me and told me I looked like I was "just totally over it". I didn't know how to explain to the 23 year old in front of me who was probably living in his first apartment that while I understood that it was cool and fun to go see a show in an abandoned theater in an almost unsafe neighborhood where you needed to know the password to get in, at this point in my life I was really more interested in places that had clean bathrooms and lots of TP. I figured this was a sign than I was more than ready to abandon my half hearted attempts at adulting and head to the jungles of a country that had hijabs, Muslims, and black magic.

I was glad that I did. Yes, I had some lonely nights in my little house in Borneo with only Law and Order to keep me company. Yes, I regularly dreamt about red wine. Yes, it took weeks for my body to calm down and realize that there wasn't much to do in Borneo besides hang out at Pizza Hut with my three friends.However, it was a big adventure and it was pretty exciting. 

I was no longer a failed adult. I was an adventurer. Maybe I did not have a husband or kids, but I had trips to Bali, lessons about vagina chalk, and fish pedicures. It wasn't exactly a substitute, but it was a lot better than sitting around and waiting for this elusive grown up life to materialize and lots more fun.

However, once I spent a year out adventuring, it was hard to imagine coming back. The thought of having to get a job that was much harder and paid much less seemed very unappealing. The idea of being broke and not being able to travel did not seem very awesome, as did the idea of sitting around and waiting to wake up with a husband and a mortgage and some kind of desire to buy household appliances and talk about what color I want to paint my hallway (which in moments of honesty I can't imagine ever wanting to talk about).

So, I left again and then again. I had more adventures and went on more exotic trips. I became really good at boarding airplanes and making hotel reservations. Mostly, I had a great time and even built a better resume sorta by accident in the process.

However, slowly something started to change. I wasn't sure if my wanderlust had finally been satisfied or if old age had finally begun to rear its ugly head. Either way, I started to feel like I could see the signs that it might be time to pack it up and return back to my homeland before I turned into a permanent weirdo, or a spinster gypsy  (and yes, I realize that it may already be much too late for that and I also realize that people like me who are not very adept at making decisions are always looking for "signs" like the universe has nothing  better to do than to send me secret messages about what choices I should make which I realize is probably not very probable The universe is most likely busy with other stuff than my arrested development.).

These were the signs that got me to thinking that I may in fact need a permanent address: 

#1. I often talk about my homeland as the "best nation on Earth" and "the most amazing place ever" completely and totally un- ironically. After four years abroad, I have, at times, sounded like a fan of fox news. It's not like I don't love my country, I totally do. I just feel like the distance between us has caused me to start sounding a little like Bill O'Riley at times and not like the Onion reading, Daily Show watching American lover I really am (I think). 

#2. I have looked out over a gorgeous sunset on the beaches of Thailand and thought "beautiful, but meh". Thinking about how the beaches are just as beautiful in the Caribbean which is a lot closer to the best nation on Earth. I was also thinking about how parts of Indonesia are just as pretty but less commercial at which point I was sure I sounded like a total asshole. Luckily, I was only sounding like an asshole in my head.

#3. During the same trip where I was poopooing Thai sunsets, I also realized that I was no longer even remotely attracted to backpackers. While in my youth I found their devil may care attitudes and cool tattoos sexy, now I simply speculate about how many species of insects are living in their dreadlocks and how many STIs they have contracted at the last Full Moon Party. I also wonder when was the last time they had called their mother.

#4. Watching Veronica Mars in my underpants has become a perfectly fun and satisfying way to spend a Friday night. While there is an element of glamour in saying you live abroad, secretly I must admit to myself I could probably watch TV in my underpants lot of different places, many of which are much closer to home.

#5. I contemplated staying another year in the city which has the worst pollution in the world and where I am about as sexually popular with straight men as Steve Buscemi in drag. Why? Because the idea of packing up all my stuff and moving again and making all new friends again sounds exhausting. I think this means that I want to make my next stop a longish one. Have you ever tried to make all new amigos when you are pushing 40? It's sooooo tiring and many of your friends usually end up to be lots younger because everyone your age is at home talking about fertility treatments, back problems, and marriage counseling.

#6. Due to a case of acute celibacy related lunacy, I mistook a tiny Asian lady for a hot, single Hispanic man while doing Bikram Yoga. This said to me that I probably needed to drink more coconut water and live in a country where tiny and adorable 22 year old girls were not falling from trees so I could possibly, at some point in the future, you know, get lucky. Although I like to throw around terms like "kizmet" and "happenstance", I must concede that perhaps Borneo, Bogota (ps. think twice about moving to a nation where EVERY LADY LOOKS LIKE SOFIA VERGARA), and Beijing have not been the best places for this. 

this dude was not in my yoga class

#6. I visited a palm reader in Kathmandu because I thought he might actually have some constructive advice about what my next move should be. Shockingly, he did not. All he did was look at a line on my thumb and tell me I couldn't trust men. I wanted to say 

"listen bro, I was sorta hoping you could tell me something I didn't already know"

I also took a Buzzfeed quiz that said I should live in LA and thought Buzzfeed is probably right. I mean, it is the same website that told me that if I was a character on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I would be Buffy. That sounded pretty accurate to me, so I figured they were probably right about this too. I am not sure if this is totally a sign that I am ready to hang up my traveling shoes, but if I can't trust Buzzfeed quizzes what can I trust?

#7. While discussing the video for Coolio's Fantastic Voyage at lunch the other day, the year I graduated from high school came up. When I said that I graduated in '95, all three of my friends in their 20s had a giggle fit. When I started to look a little P-Oed one of my friends said that there really didn't seem to be much difference in our ages which actually seemed worse than the giggle fit.  While I learned in Brooklyn that I cannot will adult life into existence, I could probably try a little harder, or at least stop vagabonding and buy some furniture at Ikea and maybe a blender or a coffee maker so kids will find my age a little less hilarious.

#8. When I went home for Christmas I had to crash in my baby sister's room. We shared a double bed. I may never have dreamt about a house with a white picket fence with a mini van out front, but having a bum to bum sleepover with my 22 year old sister in a bed with chili stains on the sheets (because who hasn't spilled a little while eating chili in bed and thought, "whatevs, it will dry no need to do anything drastic like change the sheets")wasn't exactly my vision of grown up life either. She also told me there is no way I can come back home for an extended visit unless she moves out or we get bunk beds. Shit.

#9. A couple of years ago my Nana said she was having second thoughts about leaving me her bedroom set because she didn't think I'd ever have any place to put it. It's not like my heart is set on the bedroom set, however, as I get older, I am starting to recognize the benefit of not having a bed from Ikea. I have a bed from Ikea now and if I sit on it in a certain way my feet go numb. 

Nana Banana, dasher of real furniture dreams

#10. On the even of my 37th birthday I arrived to school in the same shirt as one of the students. This said to me that not only was it probably time to stop shopping in the teen section if H and M, but that maybe Plan Adult needed some fine tuning. Oh, Plan Adult.

#11. One of my buddies at work is 24 and he thinks the fact that women over the age of 29 have boobs is kinda gross. Over dinner one night, he told me how he basically feels like any lady of a certain age over 29 should only wear turtlenecks because they should realize that "absolutely nobody wants to see that" (and by that he meant boobs). I sorta understand. I was 24 once and I also thought olds were gross. However, it's pretty weird when you realize that almost every member of the opposite sex that you socialize with thinks that you are at best a Pat.

So does all this mean I am ready to head back to best country in the world and try to make more practical decisions and chose a place to live and start creating these things called "roots" people are always talking to me about? 

To be honest, I really don't know. However, I do know that I am pretty sure when you start considering making life decisions based on Buzzfeed Quizzes and you feel yourself maybe running out of gas, it is probably time to think about heading back to the motherland before you poop out in the wrong place and decide it really would be OK to spend the rest of your adult life in Timbuktu because the thought of picking up and starting someplace new feels just impossible and exhausting.

When I was 23, I moved to Tokyo and the coolest person I met was ten years older than me. She was amazingly smart and hilarious. However, every now and again I would think that this chick is way more fun and interesting than any of my same age coworkers who are dropping their pens on the floor so they can lean over and look up the skirts of their teenage students, but when I am her age I am going to be way more "together". Fast forward 14 years and my best pals at work are 24 and 26 and while I know they like me, every now and again their eyes are saying "does this crazy bitch know how the hell old she is???". Karma really is a complete and total bitch.

So if you have any suggestions, I am all ears. The palm reader in Kathmandu didn't say anything about where I am supposed to live- I was totally bummed.

Bigmouths Strike Again

I talk a lot. I talk a lot at volumes that people consider loud. 
I think this is why quiet people make me nervous. I can't figure them out. What are they being so quiet about? What is going on in their heads? Are they happy? Bored? Mad? Sad? How I am supposed to figure it out when I can barely hear what they are saying?

It's not entirely my fault. Last summer I was sitting next to my baby sister at a restaurant. Half way through the meal my head hurt because she had been yelling in my ear for about 45 minutes. I asked her if she could talk a little quieter. She told me to shut up. I realized that I was basically having dinner with myself and that there is little you can do to fight against your biological destiny and our biological destiny is to be big mouths. 

I know two ladies that are loud as me and I think this is why I have hung on to them as amigos for 10 and 15 years. It is nice to be in a group and not be the loudest person the whole time. Have we been sushed at rock shows during our younger and even louder years? Indeed. Do we sometimes talk over each other in some version of a very, very loud talking contest? Of course. But none of us mind. Perhaps, some of the quiet people do. But we can't know for sure because if they were to complain we most certainly would not be able to hear them. Thank you Miss Wolf and Miss Hardy. Thank you so, so much. 

The problem is not really just that I talk often and loudly. To describe myself as merely a chatterbox, would not be totally accurate. The problem is more that I tend to, on occasion, say things that make people uncomfortable. People often assume this is because I don't think before I speak, or because I fail to consider my audience. This is really not the case. The truth is I do. The difference is that most people have a voice in their head that says something like "Don't say that! You will make people feel uncomfortable" or "Don't say that! You might embarrass that person". However, the voice in my head says "You might make people uncomfortable. Who cares? It will be hilarious." and "You might embarrass that guy, but it might be funny. Say it!".

There is most definitely a very good reason why I knew "Bigmouth Strikes Again" would be my favorite Smith's song before I even heard it all the way through for the first time. It's not like I have ever really known how Joan of Arc felt or doubted my place in the human race. However, the title itself always made me feel like Mister Morrissey had written it especially for me.

 I am not sure if the voice in my head is a straight shooter, or just a real jerk. Either way, it doesn't seem all the concerned with keeping things polite or comfortable. I have recounted countless conversations to friends who always ask "No, but what did you really say". They inevitably just close their eyes and shake their heads after I inform them that I just told them what I really said. I usually take this to mean that perhaps they do not entirely approve of my choice of words. I guess they just don't love the slightly shocked expression that comes over people's faces when you say something they didn't expect you to. I guess they try to avoid it. What sissy marys!

Given the fact that my big mouth still gets me reprimanded by my mother on occasion and has led me to spend entire dinners explaining to my Nana what a beard is and what furries like to do, I suppose it is a bit surprising or ironic that when it comes to other types of manners, I am a total Emily Post.

(I think this probably makes my Nana happier than the wealth of information I have given her about what a bunch of weirdos like to do in their fuzzy bunny costumes.) 

I may be incapable of keeping my big trap shut, but do I show up to a dinner empty handed? Nope. Do I dress in appropriate attire for holidays and special occasions? Absolutely. But, most importantly I have great table manners.

I think that having good overall table manners is incredibly important. You need to sit up straight, you need to make dinner conversation, you need the napkin in your lap, you need your elbows off the table, ect. However, above all YOU NEED TO CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!!!

There is nothing that makes me more irrationally angry than an open mouth chewer. I can't control it. It makes my skin crawl and it makes my face make faces that are completely and totally out of my control. Hearing the squish, squish, squish of someone's dinner in their mouth makes me want to break something! I don't even like reading the words "nom, nom, nom" that everyone seems to love writing below their posts of their pictures of food because it reminds me of the squish, squish, squish sounds and they make me very mad and very grossed out! 

I won't name names, but there are a few open mouth chewers in my own family. I have heard sounds at the dinner table that I think might be reasonable grounds for divorce. Once, a family member tried to talk to me while chewing some salmon and I had to leave the table. On my behalf, they also had a giant gob of mayo on the side of their mouth. It was the mayo that really pushed me over the edge. Is that really so hard to understand?

It has been suggested that I have some form of OCD or lunacy. It has also been suggested that I can be a real pain in the ass to eat dinner with. Although, I disagree (because really, how hard is it to just close your stupid mouth while their is food inside of it? Not very). However, as it turns out I have a desease. I am not a lunatic or an a-hole. I suffer from Misophonia.

What is Misophonia? Well, the Huffington post tells me it is an "unstoppable rage that takes over people when they hear, low, repetitive sounds, like CHEWING". People who suffer from this disorder can be sent into an "instantaneous, blood-boiling rage" around open mouth chewers. Unfortunately, there is no know effective treatment for this physiological abnormality that must reside in the part of my brain that processes sound. 

I hope the next time that I am at a table with a loud, squsihy chewer that they will understand that the death glare that I am shooting them is not really coming from me. It is just coming from my Misophonia which is totally out of my control (at least according to Web MD, which is good enough for me).

How does this effect me while living in here? Not very well. It is not an easy place for a person dealing with Misophonia. It is not an easy place at all.

There are many strict rules that must be followed while dining here. The guest of honor must sit in a special seat with a special napkin to the right of the host. You can never take the last bit of food or else it will make you look greedy and too hungry (and I like to keep those aspects of my personality on the DL). Also, finishing a dish entirely will bring shame to your host because it will give them the impression that they did not provide enough food. You also have to be careful with chopsticks. It is bad luck to stick them in rice (I think because of something to do with death) and if you lick them or gesture with them you'll be seen as ridiculously rude.

However, chewing with your mouth open? NO PROBLEM!

I have heard chewing sounds like I have never heard chewing sounds in my entire life. It's more like a "CHOMP, CHOMP, CHOMP" than a "nom, nom, nom" I have seen mouths opening wider than I thought humanly possible. I have heard sounds that made my skin crawl from several seats away on the train. The last time I boarded the train, I found my seat was next to a couple with two trays full of duck parts who who wearing plastic gloves. I instantly got the shivers because I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I braced myself for what I knew was going to be very, very loud and very, very hard for me to handle.

Is this an easy place for a person with Misophonia? Absolutely not. At least, if I am on a train I can turn the volume on my iPod all the way up and close my eyes. Sometimes this helps. Since this is not really an option while at a restaurant, sometimes I try to take deep breaths and look at my shoes. Until there is a cure, this is really the only thing I can do.

Totally Bummy

Before I describe why I am seeing bums everywhere and why I am not so thrilled about it, I would like to first admit that I am a baby person. Obviously, this is not a total shock since I am a former nanny and pre-school teacher. I am usually pretty tolerant of baby/kid related things. I won't get mad if there are little ones at a restaurant (unless they are crying hysterically or being jerks) or some other place that is more geared for grown ups. However, I must admit I did get a little sad when I saw a very adorable little girl dressed in fairy costume at Zeitgeist's one afternoon in San Francisco. It just seemed like there were better places than a grungy bar filled with skaters, bike messengers, and afternoon drunks for an adorable little fairy to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon. 

I do, however, try to downplay the fact that I am a baby enthusiast since I have reached the age where the conversation can go in one of two ways and neither of them are that awesome for anyone involved. (I won't even get into the time I was on a date and there was a comparison made between my uterus and the Titanic.)



#1- People can feign ignorance of things like Math and Biology and tell you you have plenty of time. They will then site some recently pregnant celebrity like Hallie Berry or Kelly Travolta who claim to have gotten knocked up at almost 50, totally naturally or just by accident. 

#2-Option two is to suggest that there is an easy way to put a bun in the oven while still single and trying, not always successfully, to mingle. The Sperm Bank! Just visit a sperm bank where you will be able to pick out some amazing baby batter from a helpful catalogue filled with handsome, smart, successful men who apparently could find no better way to spend an afternoon than masturbating in a clinic for a small fee. Does this sound like an unlikely scenario to anyone but me?

While I get that these people are trying to be helpers and not hinderers, I have a little problem with the Sperm Bank suggestion despite the fact that I suppose it does make some good sense. My first problem is that any time someone suggests buying sperm from a catalogue the first thing that pops into my head is the episode of the Simpson's where it is revealed that this guy is a regular donor:

I realize that these fears may not actually be totally rational. According to FB my high school roommate is now married to a very nice lady (and I would be a big liar if I was to say that the fact that we shared a very small dorm room for ten months in the 90s and I don't remember her once peaking at me didn't sorta bother me)and from the pictures it looks as though they made a very beautiful baby girl with the help of a sperm bank. So, maybe there are more checks and balances at these places than my active imagination allows for. Maybe you just have to pay more for the good stuff?


The second problem I have with this suggestion is that it seems to discount the possibility that I might be able to find any sperm on my own. It almost sounds as if my concerned amigos are suggesting that no amount of trickery and booze could result in me finding myself some sort of unsuspecting donor.

 I realize that there would draw backs to this plan. Besides requiring a large amount of lying (which sadly I am really terrible at) I don't have much faith that using the trickery and booze method would result in getting my hands on very amazing baby genes. I have a sneaking suspicion that guys who are of above average, or even just average, intelligence would probably not fall for the "I'm on the sponge routine". I feel as though I would be more likely to end up with the genetic material that would result in a baby whose DNA would bless them with

                  bad tattoos,

               a drinking problem,

                  or lunacy.

 But with my luck I am fairly certain that I would end up with a real triple threat.

However, I just had another "General" from the "US Army" send me a contact request on Skype because by looking at my profile picture he could tell I was "such an angel from above". He is really looking for a woman who is "honest, dependable, loving, caring, affectionate and have good friendship". He also feels that "woman is GOD's undeserved gift to man and she is supposed to be loved, reverenced, protected, respected, and cherished..".

As an ESL teacher, I can say with some amount of authority that the author of this message is probably not a member of the US Army and probably not a native English speaker. However, I think it also means that I am not all the way out of the race. Clearly, I have options.

But, I digress.

Before I begin to describe the Asian baby trend that I have had  a lot of trouble warming up to, I feel as though I would be remiss if I were not to mention the Asian baby fashion that I can really get behind.  

                    Baby Wigs

They are hilarious. I am a fan of wigs on anyone as a comedic device and babies are in no way any sort of an exception. They come in a close second to my number one favorite: big manly men in luxurious lady wigs, preferably blond. That is never not funny.

Besides the fact that baby wigs are funny, I also think that after you make a little person and take on the responsibility of making sure they stay alive it is your right to dress them up in silly stuff until they are old enough to complain. Just ask my little brother about his old Pinocchio outfit.

Unfortunately, there is another kind of baby gear here in Asia I have been finding less than hysterical. It is the crotchless pants. 

It's not like I think the US has it's potty training methods on lock. I have seen pretty old kids still doing their business in their pants. I don't know if it's because they make such cute diapers with Princesses and Superheroes on them or if it's because toddlers in the US are just really lazy. I do think (sim simmer mommies, I realize this is simply the opinion of a lady who has never even taken on the responsibility of a goldfish or a plant) that by the time a kid turns a certain age they should be able to figure out how to take time out from watching Dora The Explorer and picking their nose to find the toilet. If they were living in many other places in the world they would already be deemed old enough for full time work, it seems the least they can do is manage to do do their business in the right place.

While I was a nanny in SF, I worked with a little boy whose parents collected lots of contemporary art. They lived in a spotless apartment because they were germaphobes. Their apartment overlooked the bay and was gorgeous and looked like a child had never stepped foot in it. They were terrified of him making a mess, which was problematic since kids are pretty messy. 

When it was time for him to do #2 he would start to pace around his room saying "Oh, no, Oh, no" with a look of stress that should never be on the face of a person who is three feet tall (unless of course they are an LP).

When I heard the "Oh Nos",I was instructed by his parents to give him a pull up with a perfect circle cut out for his booty hole. I was told to help him put on the Pull Up so the circle was in the exact right spot, help him onto the toilet, give him a book, and leave him alone in his private bathroom for about 30 minutes. The first time I heard all this I must have looked a little confused because his mother looked at me and said, "What am I supposed to do? Let him make a mess?" and laughed very uncomfortably before she went back to cleaning her already very clean kitchen. I could not help thinking that this little guy would be spending many sessions discussing this very scenario with his future therapist.

We all know that everybody poops. Most of us have even read the book.

So, it does make sense that people find a way to treat it as a normal and natural thing. In addition to this, we already have all that trash floating in the ocean. The last thing we need is a nation of a billion adding more dirty diapers to it.

That said, the crotchless pants have been kinda hard to get used to because it means there are bums everywhere. It's not like I find anything offensive about baby bums. I think most people can agree they are actually pretty cute. There is a reason that they have been used to sell things like sunscreen and toilet paper for years.

However, there are certain times when baby bums are not all that cute. While you are trying to eat some Kung Pao chicken and there is a bare bum staring at you, it's not so cute. When you looking for a seat on the bus and you see a baby rubbing it's baby junk all over the place, it doesn't exactly look adorable. I also found it less than charming when I saw a little guy bend over with his legs spread and give himself a very, very long and  involved tickle/scratch at the park. At the risk of sounding like a Puritanical American, don't they call them private parts for a reason?

I get that at 18 months old babies can't hold it for that long, or follow lots of complicated instructions. I am sensitive to this, but I am also not so into watching babies do their business on the sidewalk or at the bus stop. I watched a little girl take a tinkle on the floor of the produce section of the supermarket the other day. Her mom was holding her above a wastepaper basket, but they missed. I don't think it makes me sound particularly neurotic to suggest that this might not be the cutest or the cleanliest thing to do near food that people plan on eating in the near future.

I used to feel really bad for the little guy in SF who was forced to poop through a very carefully cut hole in his Pull Ups. I used to wish there was a way he could be more comfortable and not completely stressed out and undone every time he had to do his business. However, I feel lately that I have been seeing bums every time I turn my head. I would be lying if I were to suggest that I have not started to miss diapers, and Pull Ups, and modesty. I can't help but think there must be some sort of in between. I know that everybody poops, I am just not sure I want to have to watch it happening all of the time.

How I Learned There Is No Fun To Be Had in the Squatty Potty of A Sucio Hospital

While having all of my ancestors hail from the West of Ireland does not give me a genetic predisposition towards mental stability or sobriety, it does seem to have made me pretty sturdy. I guess the famine wiped out all the peasants with weak constitutions. I rarely get sick. I take no medications. I have never had an operation. As a result of all my good health, I am a terrible patient. I cry. I whimper. I cringe.  I think I had a exceptionally bad reputation with my dentist in SF because I once left his office with so much Novocain in my face that my eyebrows were numb, both of them.

As you can imagine my anxiety gets turned way up when I have to visit doctors in far off lands. I have had a very traumatic root canal in Japan (which resulted in 3 months of numb lips), oral surgery in Colombia, and stitches in Peru. After listening to me cry like a baby for almost an hour while getting ten stitches for what was essentially a scraped knee my oldest gay boyfriend broke out in giggles when I emerged from the "operating" room. "Oh, Kitten", he said while still laughing, "you need some wine". I didn't mind the giggles because I could certainly see the funny in a grown women crying hysterically over a few stitches, especially one like me who is not usually that delicate of a flower. Obviously, I handle medical issue in far away places extremely well. Therefore, I was absolutely thrilled when I discovered that I was going to have to visit a local hospital a week ago.

I knew something was not right after I had to go to the bathroom 9 times at the mall (which as luck would have it has some pretty good banos in a nation where a good bano is VERY hard to find), but I tried to use the power of The Secret to will the problem away. I spent a full day imagining not having a bladder infection and drinking a lot of juice. Nine more trips to the bathroom later, I remembered that I can't stand Oprah and that the time I made a vision board in Borneo neither Paul Rudd or red wine magically appeared in my life and I had really, really wanted them too. Damn you, Oprah! But worse than thinking about my dislike for the Big O (but honesly, how can anybody trust a lady who is sooooo into that creep Tom Cruise???), I realized I was going to have to find a doctor and this gave me a very big case of the sads.

However, since I don’t live in an area with an international clinic I had to contact my office to take me to the doctors to translate for me. I was not very excited to be discussing my bladder woes with my officer manager. I also spent a lot of time hoping that at no point would I have to take my pants off with my officer manager looking on. As both a never nude and a somewhat regular person, I did not feel that spending an afternoon without my pants on in a hospital with my translator would be all kinds of fun. I spent the car ride over trying to explain to my office manager what my symptoms were and I would get a little uncomfortable. She kept saying, "Don't worry! We're girls!". It was hard to explain that while, yes, we were both girls, that was not what was making me uneasy. I know many other girls I would not really like to discuss my bladder in great detail with.

I printed out some info from the Internet with translations to try and make my trip to the clinic as quick and painless as possible.  I was hoping to get some antibiotics and get out. I wanted as little talking and as little poking and prodding as possible.

Well, it did not work out exactly as I had hoped. Firstly, hospitals here are, not surprisingly, filled with lots of people speaking very loudly. My ears are not used to the tones that people speak in here, so it always sounds like people are in a very loud fight. It sounds like the exact opposite of listening to people whispering in Italian. This did not really help to soothe my nerves. I started to get a little jumpy and began to hope that my Web MD diagnosis was in fact correct and that I would not have to have anything serious done in the crowded and noisy place that I had just arrived at.

Hospitals here are pay as you go. You pay to register. You pay to see the doctor. You pay to have a test. You may to get your meds. You cannot move on to the next step before you have paid. As a result, you have to keep returning to the cashier. This made me very glad that I had not arrived with a gunshot wound or a newly missing finger.

I met with the doctor and had my office manager explain my symptoms. She put a thermometer under my arm which I am pretty sure I had not had happen since my visits to Dr. Gerwitz, my pediatrician. Luckily, I had no temp, but the doctor wanted to test my urine. I was not thrilled by this, but compared to other possibilities I realized I was getting off pretty easy.

I went to the bathroom with my office manager and she handed me a very teeny tiny plastic cup. I then made my way to a squatty potty with very dim lighting. This was when I was certain that my afternoon had somehow taken a wrong turn that would be pretty hard to come back from. I then realized that my TP was in my purse that I had left with my office manager and the hospital apparently did not provide any. No afternoon has ever been improved with a drip dry.

I emerged from the bathroom with my tiny urine sample and realized that I had filled the cup a bit too much and was afraid I might spill some. I also felt a little funny about carrying my pee around a crowded hospital (especially due to my bladder issues, it was not the best looking pee ever), so I tried to cover it with my hand. My office manager kept saying "Don't worry! It's normal here! You don't have to cover it!". However, I still felt like it would make me feel better to try to conceal my not so great looking urine while walking down a busy hallway.

We made our way to the station where you drop off your samples only to discover they needed my sample to be placed in a vial. I took the vile and moved to go back to the bathroom to make the transfer. My office manager told me that was not necessary I could just pour it right in while standing in front of desk. She said this was normal, too. I guess in a nation filled with so many people you just can't get too hung up on things like a little public pee. So, I poured my stuff into the vial and searched my bag for some baby wiped to clean my hands.

I waited with my office manager for my results for 30 minutes. While I am a gifted chit chatter I was having some problems coming up with stuff to talk about with the women who had just watched me walk around with my own urine for the past 20 minutes. I asked her some questions about her son and her husband, but the truth was my heart wasn't really in it. 

Finally, the 30 minutes was up and it was time to get my results. You don't get your results from a person. You go to a machine that looks like a big, orange ATM and you swipe your card and the machine spits out the results. Of course the results were not spit out in English. I took a look at two parts that had a number and an arrow and I logically assumed I was probably dying.

We took the results back to the doctor who told me I had an infection. She then talked to my office manager for what seemed like a long time in their native tongue. When I asked what she said my office manager said "she said drink lots of water". It felt a lot like that scene in Lost in Translation when Bill Murray is asking for instructions on how to pose for Suntory Time, just a little more nerve wracking than humorous. 


So I got my instructions about drinking lots of water and went to go pay for my antibiotics and then go pick them up in a second line. The doctor ended the appointment by telling me if the first round of antibiotics didn't work she would have me come back for IV antibiotics. Since I am deathly afraid of needles, the idea of IV anything was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. I had had a hard enough time just using the bathroom. I decided it was a good time to pretend I was not an atheist and say a few Hail Marys and ask Jesus that there be no IVs in my future.

While waiting for my antibiotics, I realized that all of the nurses were wearing these old timey uniforms that I was not sure I had ever seen any nurses wear in real life before. Even though I was almost done with my hospital trip I can't say that seeing medical professionals dressed up like they just rolled off the set of Mad Men made me feel more at ease. It is something I just don't like to see at hospitals or airports.

I got my meds and was relieved that it was time to go and that it had been a relatively painless trip. Upon exiting the hospital, the first thing I saw was a women selling hot potatoes out of a tin drum. Needless to say this completely put my mind at ease. What else could make me feel better after exiting a  hospital filled with old timey nurses?

My infection went away and I was fine in a couple of days. I did however spend 2 hundo to visit an International Clinic in a larger city a couple of hours away. I just wanted someone to tell me in my own language that I was fine and that I should drink lots of water. Watching Nat Geo had taught me to not only keep on the straight and narrow while in far off lands (Thank you Locked Up Abroad), but also to keep a close eye on your health because for all you know you could have some sort of worms living in your brain (no, Monsters Inside Us, is not a good show to watch while living outside of the country, but, unfortunately, I learned that lesson a little bit too late).

So now I am all better and have decided to take staying healthy very seriously because I do not wish to make a second trip to the hospital.

I am going to wear my mask around town to come into contact with less germs.

I am going to eat healthy local food, like chicken.

I am also going to avoid the cats that live in the trashcan near my apartment because not only am I pretty convinced that they would like to kill me. I also would not like to contract any Cat Scratch Fever. In addition to this, they are not at all funny like Oscar the Grouch.

Hopefully, if I stick to this plan, I will be able to keep the doctor away. But at least if I get a hankering for some hot potatoes, I know exactly where to go.