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.