I have started a new blog! I might blog at sharingsher from time to time as well, but check out the new one called: America Through an Immigrant's Eyes to hear about Dom and I as we are on our new adventure in America!
immigranteyes.wordpress.com
:)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Cinderella
Stir-fried chicken with broccoli, a random Thai veggie that resembles a wee cabbage, mixed in a firey flavorful Thai red pepper sauce with dark purple rice on the side. Oh my!
And for dessert crispy guava with a warm coconut sugar and spice sauce that reminds me of the taste of caramel dipped apples from a county fair.
And he wouldn't let me help at all! He always wisely chooses all the fresh produce and chicken from the Thai market down the street, and then lets me rest on the bed reading my book while he cooks away in our little red plug-in hot pot on our tiny balcony.
I never knew how fun it would be to be married to someone whose love language is serving. It makes me feel like Cinderella who never dreamed she would one day be a princess.
But the thing is, I love to cook and invent dishes that bring joy to the eater's taste buds. Yet, since we dont have a kitchen, and only a hot pot, and it's easier for my hubby to do the market shopping, I haven't had the chance to shower my husband with food love. But at least I have had the chance to receive his showering.
The day is coming though, perhaps only five weeks away, when we will return to Waxhaw and stay with my parents for awhile at their house where there is a kitchen with an actual stove and oven, and a grocery store nearby with American products that aren't grossly over-priced!
As for now though, I will enjoy being Cinderella with my Prince.
And for dessert crispy guava with a warm coconut sugar and spice sauce that reminds me of the taste of caramel dipped apples from a county fair.
And he wouldn't let me help at all! He always wisely chooses all the fresh produce and chicken from the Thai market down the street, and then lets me rest on the bed reading my book while he cooks away in our little red plug-in hot pot on our tiny balcony.
I never knew how fun it would be to be married to someone whose love language is serving. It makes me feel like Cinderella who never dreamed she would one day be a princess.
But the thing is, I love to cook and invent dishes that bring joy to the eater's taste buds. Yet, since we dont have a kitchen, and only a hot pot, and it's easier for my hubby to do the market shopping, I haven't had the chance to shower my husband with food love. But at least I have had the chance to receive his showering.
The day is coming though, perhaps only five weeks away, when we will return to Waxhaw and stay with my parents for awhile at their house where there is a kitchen with an actual stove and oven, and a grocery store nearby with American products that aren't grossly over-priced!
As for now though, I will enjoy being Cinderella with my Prince.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Airport People
Magical places of arrival, in-between, and departure, airports, how I love them.
From Sherri's Perspective, there are three major groups of passengers at airports. The first are the in-betweeners. They are the sitting ones who typically look bored out of their minds, or if they don't look bored out of their minds, they are sleeping in awkward, back and neck cricking positions on hard plastic chairs. There are some who are productive: they are engrossed in books, networking on Blackberries, or chatting on their phones. Others are eating with languid faces. But most of them have the same expression of blah at where they are and either dreaming of their destination, or where they came from.
Then there are the arrivalers split into two groups. The first group are those who are so stoked to be at their destination. You see them scampering, dancing, smiling, crying, as they collide with loved ones, or a loved home they have missed, or a loved place they have never been to but finally have arrived at.
Then the others are those who have arrived, but it doesn't even phase them. The same vapid, empty expression remains on their faces. They drudge through the winding halls, get their bags and leave with no fanfare. Maybe they dont want to be at their destination, they don't have a home to look forward to, they were forced to come, and dream to be one of the frolicking ones who is thrilled to be exactly where they are.
Lastly, there are the departurers. There are also two groups of these people. The first group are hugging, and crying, but more in the melancholy way than the merry way. They don't want to leave their place of love and comfort, and dread what lies before them. They want to stay where they are, but know that it can't be, thus the crying.
The other group might be hugging and crying, but behind their tears and tight hugs, there is a twinkle in their eyes. They know they are leaving behind loved ones and comfort, but they are going somewhere new, on an adventure. They know saying good-bye is the price to pay for their adventure, but it's worth it, thus the twinkle.
So if my life was an airport right now, and me a passenger, I think Im the in-betweener. Im in the waiting, at my seemingly eternal lay-over. I feel done with my adventure, and now am eager for the next one, but it seems so faraway still. Will I ever arrive? Will my plane ever take-off? Im sure things that have happened the last few months have pushed me from excited arrivaler to a bored in-betweener, but whatever it was, that's where I am.
But soon I will be a departurer. I will be crying, and hugging Thailand tight, but, yes, there will be a large twinkle in my eye.
And then...hopefully I can bring some joy to the departurers and in-betweeners, when I finally become a frolicking, dancing, crying, hugging arrivaler at the airport. Come for the show if ya want!
From Sherri's Perspective, there are three major groups of passengers at airports. The first are the in-betweeners. They are the sitting ones who typically look bored out of their minds, or if they don't look bored out of their minds, they are sleeping in awkward, back and neck cricking positions on hard plastic chairs. There are some who are productive: they are engrossed in books, networking on Blackberries, or chatting on their phones. Others are eating with languid faces. But most of them have the same expression of blah at where they are and either dreaming of their destination, or where they came from.
Then there are the arrivalers split into two groups. The first group are those who are so stoked to be at their destination. You see them scampering, dancing, smiling, crying, as they collide with loved ones, or a loved home they have missed, or a loved place they have never been to but finally have arrived at.
Then the others are those who have arrived, but it doesn't even phase them. The same vapid, empty expression remains on their faces. They drudge through the winding halls, get their bags and leave with no fanfare. Maybe they dont want to be at their destination, they don't have a home to look forward to, they were forced to come, and dream to be one of the frolicking ones who is thrilled to be exactly where they are.
Lastly, there are the departurers. There are also two groups of these people. The first group are hugging, and crying, but more in the melancholy way than the merry way. They don't want to leave their place of love and comfort, and dread what lies before them. They want to stay where they are, but know that it can't be, thus the crying.
The other group might be hugging and crying, but behind their tears and tight hugs, there is a twinkle in their eyes. They know they are leaving behind loved ones and comfort, but they are going somewhere new, on an adventure. They know saying good-bye is the price to pay for their adventure, but it's worth it, thus the twinkle.
So if my life was an airport right now, and me a passenger, I think Im the in-betweener. Im in the waiting, at my seemingly eternal lay-over. I feel done with my adventure, and now am eager for the next one, but it seems so faraway still. Will I ever arrive? Will my plane ever take-off? Im sure things that have happened the last few months have pushed me from excited arrivaler to a bored in-betweener, but whatever it was, that's where I am.
But soon I will be a departurer. I will be crying, and hugging Thailand tight, but, yes, there will be a large twinkle in my eye.
And then...hopefully I can bring some joy to the departurers and in-betweeners, when I finally become a frolicking, dancing, crying, hugging arrivaler at the airport. Come for the show if ya want!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Mangroves, Mud, Monkeys
"Bring a swim suit." Typical Thai fashion, given a few facts, and you are left to fill in the details. Of course we assumed we were going to the beach, so I brought my white and pink two piece, with my matching white and pink sarong to wear as a cover-up over my suit.
All 14 of us, our two American friends, and the rest newly met Thai friends, piled into a 14 passenger party van. Well, if it was night, instead of at 7:30a.m., I would have pictured it as a party van. There were huge round speakers in the roof, and fluorescent lights ran up and down the interior like a disco. But instead of dancing, we half-slept on each other and chatted as the shock-less van bounced the two hours to our unknown destination.
"Oh, you might get muddy." That was a side note our Thai friend told us as we got out of the van to the traditional Thai-style resort next to what looked like a lake.
Clad in orange as a construction cone, and bright green as 80's running shorts life vests, we split up into two long Native American-style wooden canoe boats with motors, and a hand-made flat plastic red roof covering us.
Thus began the adventure, not at the beach, but in a mangrove forest. We rode through the water neighborhood of the fishermen surrounding the forest, gazing at fences which were sticks stuck in the mud, with only about a foot of the stick poking out of the water to gently remind the other fishermen where their "land" began and ended. The river houses, instead of having two cars sitting in their driveway had two or three boats which looked similar to ours stacked up under their houses.
We jetted through the muddy, gray water to pull up next to a fisherman at work. His 4-year old son sat in the middle of the boat with him, separating shrimp, still squirming around in their net, that had been dumped in front of him. He barely glanced at us, keeping his eyes on his work, picking out the good shrimp with nimble fingers that will touch more fish and sea creatures in his lifetime than the keys on a computer or the buttons on a cell phone.
After waving farewell to pro-fisher boy, we were steered into an inlet and stopped. Of course, we weren't told why we were stopping, Stone-Faced Captain just stopped. We looked at the island next to us and reared back. Monkeys were swinging and mangroves were swaying before us.
"Aww, cute monkeys!" we thought as they played on the trees. But then they started to come down and run across the island to us. One brave soul flung himself off the island and grabbed the edge of the boat like we were his hoped for rescuers, causing me to scream and leap back, rocking the boat. But then the bananas came from Captain which made them scatter as they attacked each other over the small yellow treasures.
We squeezed a little further down the inlet, where we stopped again. Captain, without at word, got out of the boat, stepped onto the island, and suddenly was knee deep in mud. We giggled at how shocking it was to see him so deep in mud, but then he got a plank of wood to put from the boat to the island so we could join him too. Oh boy...
With much snickering, slipping, sucking, and sludging, we stomped through the mud, and were passed mangrove saplings. We weren't told what to do, but were pantomimed to take off the material that covered the roots, jam it into the mud and squish more mud over it until it was firmly in the "ground". After about 10 minutes of tree planting to prevent erosion in the future, we were back in the boat.
As we pondered how deep the water was, we saw that slowly the water was disappearing. Before us was a desert expanse of the mud. Then as we wondered how we would get through the mud in the boat, the boat in front of us flew away through the sludge, spraying an arc of mud behind it. Woohoo!
But instead of making an arc of beautiful mud behind us, we pulled ahead, sputtered, and left nothing. We had stalled.
Thankfully Calm Captain had a cell phone, called the other driver and asked him to stop. We had fun blowing our emergency whistles on our life vests, much to the annoyance of Captain, but much to our delight.
Eventually, instead of having the boat come to us, we went to it. I was first to hop onto a wooden plank surf board which I was pushed on as I waved farewell like Miss America to my friends. Captain pushed me over the mud so smoothly I felt like a snowboarder sliding on snow to the other boat.
After everyone made it, a little more muddy and wet than before, but full of adrenaline from the adventure, we laughed our way to the river house stilted high above the waters where we would eat lunch. We climbed up the smooth and silken wooden rungs of the ladder to our feast.
Sitting on the wooden floor, we ate: fresh shrimp, huge prawns, bass in sweet and sour sauce, squid, Thai omelette, oysters, clams, hummingbird flower, tom yum soup, rice, coconut and sticky rice, and sweet satisfying Thai grapefruit. How delightful.
Then it was time for extreme mud boarding through clam infested mud. But we soon discovered that the smooth ride over the mud, isn't as smooth without an experienced mud boarder pushing you along. We got stuck. Some of our legs disappeared with only our chests sticking out. Some of us just sat in the middle of the mud in awkward positions, trying to stay on our board somehow, laughing and shrieking until we were saved.
Eventually, Im not quite sure how, we all got over to the waters where we used netting to scrub our legs and and arms and hands and feet free from as much goo as we could. Then the boats carried us back to land-- our stomachs now full, our skin now clothed in mud, our legs and arms now covered in scratches from sharp clam shells, our minds full of memories, and my white and pink swim-wear now brown.
Mangroves, mud, and monkeys. When I woke up on Monday morning I never dreamed that's what my day would be made of.
How I love you random Thailand and how I will miss you in busy, scheduled America.
All 14 of us, our two American friends, and the rest newly met Thai friends, piled into a 14 passenger party van. Well, if it was night, instead of at 7:30a.m., I would have pictured it as a party van. There were huge round speakers in the roof, and fluorescent lights ran up and down the interior like a disco. But instead of dancing, we half-slept on each other and chatted as the shock-less van bounced the two hours to our unknown destination.
"Oh, you might get muddy." That was a side note our Thai friend told us as we got out of the van to the traditional Thai-style resort next to what looked like a lake.
Clad in orange as a construction cone, and bright green as 80's running shorts life vests, we split up into two long Native American-style wooden canoe boats with motors, and a hand-made flat plastic red roof covering us.
Thus began the adventure, not at the beach, but in a mangrove forest. We rode through the water neighborhood of the fishermen surrounding the forest, gazing at fences which were sticks stuck in the mud, with only about a foot of the stick poking out of the water to gently remind the other fishermen where their "land" began and ended. The river houses, instead of having two cars sitting in their driveway had two or three boats which looked similar to ours stacked up under their houses.
We jetted through the muddy, gray water to pull up next to a fisherman at work. His 4-year old son sat in the middle of the boat with him, separating shrimp, still squirming around in their net, that had been dumped in front of him. He barely glanced at us, keeping his eyes on his work, picking out the good shrimp with nimble fingers that will touch more fish and sea creatures in his lifetime than the keys on a computer or the buttons on a cell phone.
After waving farewell to pro-fisher boy, we were steered into an inlet and stopped. Of course, we weren't told why we were stopping, Stone-Faced Captain just stopped. We looked at the island next to us and reared back. Monkeys were swinging and mangroves were swaying before us.
"Aww, cute monkeys!" we thought as they played on the trees. But then they started to come down and run across the island to us. One brave soul flung himself off the island and grabbed the edge of the boat like we were his hoped for rescuers, causing me to scream and leap back, rocking the boat. But then the bananas came from Captain which made them scatter as they attacked each other over the small yellow treasures.
We squeezed a little further down the inlet, where we stopped again. Captain, without at word, got out of the boat, stepped onto the island, and suddenly was knee deep in mud. We giggled at how shocking it was to see him so deep in mud, but then he got a plank of wood to put from the boat to the island so we could join him too. Oh boy...
With much snickering, slipping, sucking, and sludging, we stomped through the mud, and were passed mangrove saplings. We weren't told what to do, but were pantomimed to take off the material that covered the roots, jam it into the mud and squish more mud over it until it was firmly in the "ground". After about 10 minutes of tree planting to prevent erosion in the future, we were back in the boat.
As we pondered how deep the water was, we saw that slowly the water was disappearing. Before us was a desert expanse of the mud. Then as we wondered how we would get through the mud in the boat, the boat in front of us flew away through the sludge, spraying an arc of mud behind it. Woohoo!
But instead of making an arc of beautiful mud behind us, we pulled ahead, sputtered, and left nothing. We had stalled.
Thankfully Calm Captain had a cell phone, called the other driver and asked him to stop. We had fun blowing our emergency whistles on our life vests, much to the annoyance of Captain, but much to our delight.
Eventually, instead of having the boat come to us, we went to it. I was first to hop onto a wooden plank surf board which I was pushed on as I waved farewell like Miss America to my friends. Captain pushed me over the mud so smoothly I felt like a snowboarder sliding on snow to the other boat.
After everyone made it, a little more muddy and wet than before, but full of adrenaline from the adventure, we laughed our way to the river house stilted high above the waters where we would eat lunch. We climbed up the smooth and silken wooden rungs of the ladder to our feast.
Sitting on the wooden floor, we ate: fresh shrimp, huge prawns, bass in sweet and sour sauce, squid, Thai omelette, oysters, clams, hummingbird flower, tom yum soup, rice, coconut and sticky rice, and sweet satisfying Thai grapefruit. How delightful.
Then it was time for extreme mud boarding through clam infested mud. But we soon discovered that the smooth ride over the mud, isn't as smooth without an experienced mud boarder pushing you along. We got stuck. Some of our legs disappeared with only our chests sticking out. Some of us just sat in the middle of the mud in awkward positions, trying to stay on our board somehow, laughing and shrieking until we were saved.
Eventually, Im not quite sure how, we all got over to the waters where we used netting to scrub our legs and and arms and hands and feet free from as much goo as we could. Then the boats carried us back to land-- our stomachs now full, our skin now clothed in mud, our legs and arms now covered in scratches from sharp clam shells, our minds full of memories, and my white and pink swim-wear now brown.
Mangroves, mud, and monkeys. When I woke up on Monday morning I never dreamed that's what my day would be made of.
How I love you random Thailand and how I will miss you in busy, scheduled America.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Oasis in the Desert
My desert began a two weeks ago when i was hurt by a dear friend and experienced pain I had never been through before. But I have come to discover from it, that in a desert of confusion, pain, and longing, true friends are the oases that bring refreshment, perseverance and hope.
One oasis was when I couldn't stop crying at Gloria Jeans coffee-shop and after a frantic txt to my husband, the words he replied with calmed me like a mother's gentle embrace soothes a child's violent tears.
Then a friend arrived, just seeing her smiling eyes, peaceful presence, and flowery, flowy skirt helped me feel like life wasn't over. I poured out my anguish to her and what restored me to my old positive self for the time being, was more than anything her listening ear that made me feel that she was in this with me: I wasn't alone.
Or when i went to lunch in the middle of the work-day and I just had to cry and my friend held my shoulders as I walked through the maze of food vendors unaware of what caused my pain, only seeing the effects of it drip down my reddened face.
Then a relaxing dessert place where on cozy couches my friends counseled me as we ate a chocolate lave cake, every bite scooped into my mouth with the golden spoon awakened my sleeping serotonin. As I sipped my lychee mint drink, I was even able to laugh at how crazy life can be.
Emails, and chats with friends from home full of love and lines from years long ago, reminded me that I have friendships built on solid foundations, awaiting for me when I return back to the States.
Talking with my parents over skype, thinking about memories of home, and hearing their sweet voices and words of loving advice, I couldn't handle how blessed I am, even in the midst of my hurt.
I hope I can be the ice-cold refreshing water for someone wandering in the hot, bleak emptiness of the pain of life, since now I know how sweet to the soul it is.
One oasis was when I couldn't stop crying at Gloria Jeans coffee-shop and after a frantic txt to my husband, the words he replied with calmed me like a mother's gentle embrace soothes a child's violent tears.
Then a friend arrived, just seeing her smiling eyes, peaceful presence, and flowery, flowy skirt helped me feel like life wasn't over. I poured out my anguish to her and what restored me to my old positive self for the time being, was more than anything her listening ear that made me feel that she was in this with me: I wasn't alone.
Or when i went to lunch in the middle of the work-day and I just had to cry and my friend held my shoulders as I walked through the maze of food vendors unaware of what caused my pain, only seeing the effects of it drip down my reddened face.
Then a relaxing dessert place where on cozy couches my friends counseled me as we ate a chocolate lave cake, every bite scooped into my mouth with the golden spoon awakened my sleeping serotonin. As I sipped my lychee mint drink, I was even able to laugh at how crazy life can be.
Emails, and chats with friends from home full of love and lines from years long ago, reminded me that I have friendships built on solid foundations, awaiting for me when I return back to the States.
Talking with my parents over skype, thinking about memories of home, and hearing their sweet voices and words of loving advice, I couldn't handle how blessed I am, even in the midst of my hurt.
I hope I can be the ice-cold refreshing water for someone wandering in the hot, bleak emptiness of the pain of life, since now I know how sweet to the soul it is.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Warning
Last night some of my friends and I, all American ex-pats living in Thailand, were discussing over greasy Thai food, how we are losing our English.
Everyday we speak to Thais who yearn with all their hearts to know English, yet since they don't get much practice, most still linger at elementary levels. So in order to get our points across we simplify.
We now analyze in our heads the words we are about to say before we say them to make sure the vocabulary isn't too difficult. We never say idioms anymore. We talk in a slower, clearer tone of voice without thinking twice about it.
One girl told a story how she and an American friend were walking by a fish and tackle store. She peered in the large glass display window and said to her friend, "Look! Fishing sticks!"
"You mean, fishing "poles"?"
One of my friends from home told me that when she talked to me on the phone last, it sounded like I ended my sentences in a weird-anime-character-like-way. I thought, "Oh boy, my English is becoming Thinglish!" since Thais, when they attempt to speak English, stretch out the end of their sentences.
For example, if I ever told my motorcycle man to take me to "Asoke Tower", he would stare at me blankly. But if I said, "Asoke Toweeerrrrr" he would take me there without hesitation.
Even when I email I will write an idiom, delete it, but then remember that my friend is fluent in English! And then pack the email with all the idioms my fingers have been holding inside for the past months.
So this is just a warning for when I come home. If I have trouble using advanced vocabulary, pronouncing words correctly, and understanding slang, it's only the Thailand effect. I will be ok soon, please be patient.
Everyday we speak to Thais who yearn with all their hearts to know English, yet since they don't get much practice, most still linger at elementary levels. So in order to get our points across we simplify.
We now analyze in our heads the words we are about to say before we say them to make sure the vocabulary isn't too difficult. We never say idioms anymore. We talk in a slower, clearer tone of voice without thinking twice about it.
One girl told a story how she and an American friend were walking by a fish and tackle store. She peered in the large glass display window and said to her friend, "Look! Fishing sticks!"
"You mean, fishing "poles"?"
One of my friends from home told me that when she talked to me on the phone last, it sounded like I ended my sentences in a weird-anime-character-like-way. I thought, "Oh boy, my English is becoming Thinglish!" since Thais, when they attempt to speak English, stretch out the end of their sentences.
For example, if I ever told my motorcycle man to take me to "Asoke Tower", he would stare at me blankly. But if I said, "Asoke Toweeerrrrr" he would take me there without hesitation.
Even when I email I will write an idiom, delete it, but then remember that my friend is fluent in English! And then pack the email with all the idioms my fingers have been holding inside for the past months.
So this is just a warning for when I come home. If I have trouble using advanced vocabulary, pronouncing words correctly, and understanding slang, it's only the Thailand effect. I will be ok soon, please be patient.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Kitung Na
Thailand. Maybe my feelings for it are like those a parent might have for her rebellious teen. It can get on my nerves, annoy me, make me yell and scream at times, but then deep down, I still love it dearly.
I hope I won't ever forget my days of
daily eating Thai food-for only $1-that is so spicy and flavorful it makes my taste-buds do the the salsa with every bite.
swimming outside my husband's old gym on hot December nights in dark water magically glowing from the gym lights and gazing at the stars peeking out under the palm trees dancing in the breeze.
never driving but always riding: the skytrain, subway, rickety buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles, taxis, bikes, and of course walking to get around the city.
eating dinner with my hubby Thai-style on the floor in our tiny studio while watching Prison Break episodes we downloaded on his laptop.
sipping cheap iced drinks from sweaty, smiling street vendors-- cappuccinos, chayen, coco, lemon tea...ahhh...
escaping Bangkok for the weekend and remembering that emerald oceans, white sands, cotton-candy blue waterfalls, friendly monkeys, ancient ruins, and refreshing mountain air really do exist in Thailand.
meeting and befriending treasures from all over the world--Swedes, Californians, Canadians, Vietnamese, Koreans, Japanese, Singaporeans, Chinese, British, Trinidadians, Irish, Russians, Zimbabweans, and Malaysians.
falling in love with my husband
my Thai sisters helping me pick out my perfect wedding dress.
walking to work everyday while repeating the speech in Thai I memorized to say at the reception to my hubby
looking out at the shining Grand Palace on the other side of the river during our wedding ceremony and marveling at how unpredictable life is.
teaching hard-working Asian kiddos who can all pronounce my new last name, Phengchard, correctly.
I think this list could become endless, so I will stop now and write more as the days pass and I become more and more nostalgic. I hope when those Thailand missing pains come in America, I can look at this and smile.
God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922
I hope I won't ever forget my days of
daily eating Thai food-for only $1-that is so spicy and flavorful it makes my taste-buds do the the salsa with every bite.
swimming outside my husband's old gym on hot December nights in dark water magically glowing from the gym lights and gazing at the stars peeking out under the palm trees dancing in the breeze.
never driving but always riding: the skytrain, subway, rickety buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles, taxis, bikes, and of course walking to get around the city.
eating dinner with my hubby Thai-style on the floor in our tiny studio while watching Prison Break episodes we downloaded on his laptop.
sipping cheap iced drinks from sweaty, smiling street vendors-- cappuccinos, chayen, coco, lemon tea...ahhh...
escaping Bangkok for the weekend and remembering that emerald oceans, white sands, cotton-candy blue waterfalls, friendly monkeys, ancient ruins, and refreshing mountain air really do exist in Thailand.
meeting and befriending treasures from all over the world--Swedes, Californians, Canadians, Vietnamese, Koreans, Japanese, Singaporeans, Chinese, British, Trinidadians, Irish, Russians, Zimbabweans, and Malaysians.
falling in love with my husband
my Thai sisters helping me pick out my perfect wedding dress.
walking to work everyday while repeating the speech in Thai I memorized to say at the reception to my hubby
looking out at the shining Grand Palace on the other side of the river during our wedding ceremony and marveling at how unpredictable life is.
teaching hard-working Asian kiddos who can all pronounce my new last name, Phengchard, correctly.
I think this list could become endless, so I will stop now and write more as the days pass and I become more and more nostalgic. I hope when those Thailand missing pains come in America, I can look at this and smile.
God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922
Friday, May 15, 2009
Rainy Day Dream
Thunder is rumbling, and rain is plit-plattering outside. Just seeing the darkening clouds, and the sky dumping itself out, makes me instinctively want to curl up into a ball next to a warm fireplace on a soft, leather couch under a fuzzy blanket and sip steamy hot chocolate with gooey marshmallows while reading a page-turner.
Hmm..but there are no fireplaces in Thailand. The closest I have come to comfort is splish-splashing through the rain puddles to buy the cheapest coffee drink from Gloria Jeans, a white chocolate mocha, and sip it while I type in my fluorescent bright, sort of muggy office room while dreaming of my hot chocolate fireplace fantasy described above.
2 and a half months till America...
Hmm..but there are no fireplaces in Thailand. The closest I have come to comfort is splish-splashing through the rain puddles to buy the cheapest coffee drink from Gloria Jeans, a white chocolate mocha, and sip it while I type in my fluorescent bright, sort of muggy office room while dreaming of my hot chocolate fireplace fantasy described above.
2 and a half months till America...
Monday, May 11, 2009
"Our" East meets "Me" West
"They are busy at work, so it's ok if we borrow their car. They don't need it now, so they won't mind." Dom told me while we were in visiting his hometown car-less.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yeah, no big deal!" Dom said, while his eyes said, "Why in the world would this be a big deal?"
So we walked down a few streets over from his grandma's small house to his old high school friend's internet cafe to pick up the car. The store was full of Thai kiddos engrossed in screens covered with millions of blinking chat conversations, fighting or dancing computer games, or hi-five pages full of comments written in Thai.
While the wife of Dom's friend gave someone a password for a computer, balanced her 3-year-old son on her hip as he ate a piece of guava dipped in spicy sugar, she searched the desk piled up with business-type papers looking for the car keys. Eventually she found them, passed them to us with a smile, and then left us to our own devices as she unlocked the cashbox to give someone change for a 1000 baht. "What a woman! " I thought.
For the day we drove around to the ancient ruins, had special hot, sweet and spicy chicken soup for lunch, got groceries at the Big C, brought them back to Grandma's and then took the car back later that night. Dom gave the keys back to his friend, they chatted for a few minutes and we left.
I had this feeling of awe and wonder for most of the day, pondering at this huge difference between our cultures. I was thinking how weird it would be for me to randomly ask my friend I hadn't seen in ages to borrow their car and use it for the whole day, without them thinking twice about it-- as if instead of asking to use their car I was asking to use their bathroom. If I was able to borrow their car, I would feel paranoid and guilty all day, like I had stolen their precious treasure.
When I told Dom this, he thought that was odd that people don't freely share their possessions in America. He had noticed with his American roommate, if Dom asked to borrow his motorbike, he would make a huff-and-puffy big deal about it, let him borrow it, but eventually asked him not to because it was "his" motorbike.
Even though it's not stated, many Thais have an "our" mentality instead of "me". I love this mindset especially when it comes to the way they eat because I love to try new foods. In America, I will even ask people if they want to try my food, hoping they will say yes, so they will ask if I want taste theirs.
But many times in America, most people don't want to try my food because they already have their own and hardly ever ask if I want to taste their dish.
Thailand is a different story. When Thais have big meals together, they order what seems like a Thanksgiving feast number of dishes and sprawl them out at the center of the table. Forks and spoons go flying to this or that dish. We dont even pass dishes in Thailand, we just stretch arms. Many times when Im just eating with Dominic at a restaurant we will order two dishes and share both together. I can't wait to bring this tradition to America: one fountain drink between the two of us and free refills, bring it on!
It may not be very apparent to many Americans that we have this me-focus, but the rest of the world definitely defines us by it. One of my cute-as-can-be Thai co-workers has recently started dating an American guy. She anxiously questions me frequently about the differences between how people date in America compared to Thailand. One thing which is holding her back is she says, "American guys are so selfish. I don't know if I can handle that."
Of course I told her not to generalize, and tried to convince her to test this guy out before she compared him to the stereotype, but it hurt my feelings to think that our culture is known all over the world as selfish.
Thai culture isn't perfect either. The easy-going attitude about everything has led to a lot of political and economic turmoil. As I always say, every culture has good and bad in it, no culture is perfect. But Im glad that I live here, and have learned about this good part of Thai culture. I hope that I can apply it when we move to America. Yet, if I mess up, at least Dom will be there to remind me through his way of living life that truly--what's mine is yours.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yeah, no big deal!" Dom said, while his eyes said, "Why in the world would this be a big deal?"
So we walked down a few streets over from his grandma's small house to his old high school friend's internet cafe to pick up the car. The store was full of Thai kiddos engrossed in screens covered with millions of blinking chat conversations, fighting or dancing computer games, or hi-five pages full of comments written in Thai.
While the wife of Dom's friend gave someone a password for a computer, balanced her 3-year-old son on her hip as he ate a piece of guava dipped in spicy sugar, she searched the desk piled up with business-type papers looking for the car keys. Eventually she found them, passed them to us with a smile, and then left us to our own devices as she unlocked the cashbox to give someone change for a 1000 baht. "What a woman! " I thought.
For the day we drove around to the ancient ruins, had special hot, sweet and spicy chicken soup for lunch, got groceries at the Big C, brought them back to Grandma's and then took the car back later that night. Dom gave the keys back to his friend, they chatted for a few minutes and we left.
I had this feeling of awe and wonder for most of the day, pondering at this huge difference between our cultures. I was thinking how weird it would be for me to randomly ask my friend I hadn't seen in ages to borrow their car and use it for the whole day, without them thinking twice about it-- as if instead of asking to use their car I was asking to use their bathroom. If I was able to borrow their car, I would feel paranoid and guilty all day, like I had stolen their precious treasure.
When I told Dom this, he thought that was odd that people don't freely share their possessions in America. He had noticed with his American roommate, if Dom asked to borrow his motorbike, he would make a huff-and-puffy big deal about it, let him borrow it, but eventually asked him not to because it was "his" motorbike.
Even though it's not stated, many Thais have an "our" mentality instead of "me". I love this mindset especially when it comes to the way they eat because I love to try new foods. In America, I will even ask people if they want to try my food, hoping they will say yes, so they will ask if I want taste theirs.
But many times in America, most people don't want to try my food because they already have their own and hardly ever ask if I want to taste their dish.
Thailand is a different story. When Thais have big meals together, they order what seems like a Thanksgiving feast number of dishes and sprawl them out at the center of the table. Forks and spoons go flying to this or that dish. We dont even pass dishes in Thailand, we just stretch arms. Many times when Im just eating with Dominic at a restaurant we will order two dishes and share both together. I can't wait to bring this tradition to America: one fountain drink between the two of us and free refills, bring it on!
It may not be very apparent to many Americans that we have this me-focus, but the rest of the world definitely defines us by it. One of my cute-as-can-be Thai co-workers has recently started dating an American guy. She anxiously questions me frequently about the differences between how people date in America compared to Thailand. One thing which is holding her back is she says, "American guys are so selfish. I don't know if I can handle that."
Of course I told her not to generalize, and tried to convince her to test this guy out before she compared him to the stereotype, but it hurt my feelings to think that our culture is known all over the world as selfish.
Thai culture isn't perfect either. The easy-going attitude about everything has led to a lot of political and economic turmoil. As I always say, every culture has good and bad in it, no culture is perfect. But Im glad that I live here, and have learned about this good part of Thai culture. I hope that I can apply it when we move to America. Yet, if I mess up, at least Dom will be there to remind me through his way of living life that truly--what's mine is yours.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Meditations on Mother Theresa
A petite, stooped over wrinkly like a pit bull, but as cute as a puppy, old lady wearing tattered nun clothing.
Im sure that is all i would have thought about her if I had passed by her on the street or seen her on a bus, but wow, Mother Theresa was so much more than a wee, pit bull puppy looking woman.
This week I have been re-reading the book, One Heart Full of Love, which is a series of Mother Theresa's speeches she gave all around the world at different functions and awards ceremonies.
It is so delightful because I can hear her sweet, gentle voice coming through as I read them and it reminds me of my loving grandmother's voice. Her speeches repeat the same stories and themes over and over, and aren't laced with flowery language and are free from theological arguments. Instead they portray, nothing more and nothing less, than a simple, authentic faith.
One of my favorite quotes was when she was going to be awarded an honorary degree as a Doctor of Divinity from Cambridge and she felt unqualified, "You know full well that I have not studied theology. I just simply try always to live it out."
Reading this book has inspired me, but not in ways that I at first thought I would be. When I think of all the work Mother Theresa and her Missionaries of Charity have done all over the world--starting orphanages and houses for the dying, caring for lepers, finding parents for orphans, feeding the hungry, loving the sick, being a friend to the friendless--the list goes on--I thought I would want to forsake my ordinary life and move to the slums and take a vow of poverty.
But the one thing that she spoke on more than helping those who are have physical poverty was helping those who have poverty of the soul, the hardest poverty to cure, which is loneliness. This poverty is what she said we need to focus on curing, and it starts with loving those in our family who are typically neglected by society.
Mother Theresa said how she went to a top of the line nursing home which had beautiful rooms, caring nursing staff, and wonderful healthcare, but as she walked the hallways and peered in the rooms she saw that every person who lived there kept looking out their doors, with sad, yet eager expressions. She was told that everyone is always waiting, for a daughter, son, grandchild to visit, but hardly anyone ever does.
My sweet grandmother's health is slowly deteriorating, which breaks my heart, but I feel at peace because I know she doesn't have poverty of the soul during this hard time. My mom and dad have decided to move her into their home so they can be her care-takers and support her.
My mom will have dinner with her and share about the crazy kids in her kindergarten class that she teaches, while my grandmother faithfully asks about every child by name.
My dad is my go-between on skype when she wants to chat with me while Im at work. He will type out her thoughts to me word for word so I feel like she is speaking to me.
My parents, and Mother Theresa, have set me an example that I hope I can follow after. I can't wait to go home and be near my grandma, to be able to sit and listen to her stories and share mine with her, to make her breakfast and coffee, and to just smile at her and be smiled at.
So even though I do feel at times that I just want to move to a remote orphanage and love on kids all day, I know that first I must love on my husband, my parents, my grandma, my friends and co-workers. Because maybe it is my job to help cure poverty that runs deeper and and wider than any food or pills or money can relieve.
Im sure that is all i would have thought about her if I had passed by her on the street or seen her on a bus, but wow, Mother Theresa was so much more than a wee, pit bull puppy looking woman.
This week I have been re-reading the book, One Heart Full of Love, which is a series of Mother Theresa's speeches she gave all around the world at different functions and awards ceremonies.
It is so delightful because I can hear her sweet, gentle voice coming through as I read them and it reminds me of my loving grandmother's voice. Her speeches repeat the same stories and themes over and over, and aren't laced with flowery language and are free from theological arguments. Instead they portray, nothing more and nothing less, than a simple, authentic faith.
One of my favorite quotes was when she was going to be awarded an honorary degree as a Doctor of Divinity from Cambridge and she felt unqualified, "You know full well that I have not studied theology. I just simply try always to live it out."
Reading this book has inspired me, but not in ways that I at first thought I would be. When I think of all the work Mother Theresa and her Missionaries of Charity have done all over the world--starting orphanages and houses for the dying, caring for lepers, finding parents for orphans, feeding the hungry, loving the sick, being a friend to the friendless--the list goes on--I thought I would want to forsake my ordinary life and move to the slums and take a vow of poverty.
But the one thing that she spoke on more than helping those who are have physical poverty was helping those who have poverty of the soul, the hardest poverty to cure, which is loneliness. This poverty is what she said we need to focus on curing, and it starts with loving those in our family who are typically neglected by society.
Mother Theresa said how she went to a top of the line nursing home which had beautiful rooms, caring nursing staff, and wonderful healthcare, but as she walked the hallways and peered in the rooms she saw that every person who lived there kept looking out their doors, with sad, yet eager expressions. She was told that everyone is always waiting, for a daughter, son, grandchild to visit, but hardly anyone ever does.
My sweet grandmother's health is slowly deteriorating, which breaks my heart, but I feel at peace because I know she doesn't have poverty of the soul during this hard time. My mom and dad have decided to move her into their home so they can be her care-takers and support her.
My mom will have dinner with her and share about the crazy kids in her kindergarten class that she teaches, while my grandmother faithfully asks about every child by name.
My dad is my go-between on skype when she wants to chat with me while Im at work. He will type out her thoughts to me word for word so I feel like she is speaking to me.
My parents, and Mother Theresa, have set me an example that I hope I can follow after. I can't wait to go home and be near my grandma, to be able to sit and listen to her stories and share mine with her, to make her breakfast and coffee, and to just smile at her and be smiled at.
So even though I do feel at times that I just want to move to a remote orphanage and love on kids all day, I know that first I must love on my husband, my parents, my grandma, my friends and co-workers. Because maybe it is my job to help cure poverty that runs deeper and and wider than any food or pills or money can relieve.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Fortune Tellers
He was in his late 30s, had long, black hair that was pulled back in a pony tail. He wore a plain white T-shirt, and jeans. Except for his longer hair, his appearance wouldn't have been very memorable. But I recalled that the last time I was at this same mid-range Thai restaurant I had seen him too, and everyone who came into the restaurant greeted him like they were old friends. I thought perhaps he was the friendly owner of the place and left it at that.
But this time Dominic's mom pointed him out and said that he was a fortune teller; her clue was his special fortune cards with intricate pictures of his customer's fate he laid out on the table. Im always caught off guard at how common fortune telling is in Thailand, or in Asia for that matter.
A chubby, gypsy woman wearing excessive gaudy jewelry, a turban, and a rainbow colored mumu is usually what comes to my mind when I think of a fortune teller. She has a mystical smile and an eager glint in her eye, mesmerized by her crystal ball she rubs over and over in a candle-lit room. But the perfectly normal Thai man I saw at the nicer Thai restaurant destroyed all my fortune teller preconceived notions.
I also used to imagine people who went to fortune tellers as artsy people intrigued by magical things or normal people who go but never let it out. But here, the women customers who sat at his table wore fashionable funky dresses, and the men polo shirts and black dress pants. Typical mid-upper class Thai people who weren't ashamed to have everyone at this restaurant see their yearning to peer into their unknowns.
Some of my friends, and some of the high schoolers I teach, have mentioned to me that they have gone to see fortune tellers. They don't make a big deal of it. The way they describe it I suppose it's like us reading our horoscopes. Some people believe it is true, others believe some of it and discard the rest.
I wonder why we as humans desire to know the future so much? Why can't we just be surprised at whatever happens next?
I know right now I would love to know when we will finally get the letter telling us when Dominic's interview date for his green card is, or what job Dom or I will do in America starting in August, or what we will do in two years.
I like to make predictions and try to figure out what will happen through thinking so much my brain hurts because it makes me feel like Im more in control of my life. Yet, whenever I think I know what is going to happen next, Im always surprised by how the road Im riding on will dangle off in a direction I never fathomed existed.
Im tired of trying to be my own lousy fortune teller. How I want to be a horse with blinders on. I want to take life step by step, give up my control, and let my Rider lead the way.
But this time Dominic's mom pointed him out and said that he was a fortune teller; her clue was his special fortune cards with intricate pictures of his customer's fate he laid out on the table. Im always caught off guard at how common fortune telling is in Thailand, or in Asia for that matter.
A chubby, gypsy woman wearing excessive gaudy jewelry, a turban, and a rainbow colored mumu is usually what comes to my mind when I think of a fortune teller. She has a mystical smile and an eager glint in her eye, mesmerized by her crystal ball she rubs over and over in a candle-lit room. But the perfectly normal Thai man I saw at the nicer Thai restaurant destroyed all my fortune teller preconceived notions.
I also used to imagine people who went to fortune tellers as artsy people intrigued by magical things or normal people who go but never let it out. But here, the women customers who sat at his table wore fashionable funky dresses, and the men polo shirts and black dress pants. Typical mid-upper class Thai people who weren't ashamed to have everyone at this restaurant see their yearning to peer into their unknowns.
Some of my friends, and some of the high schoolers I teach, have mentioned to me that they have gone to see fortune tellers. They don't make a big deal of it. The way they describe it I suppose it's like us reading our horoscopes. Some people believe it is true, others believe some of it and discard the rest.
I wonder why we as humans desire to know the future so much? Why can't we just be surprised at whatever happens next?
I know right now I would love to know when we will finally get the letter telling us when Dominic's interview date for his green card is, or what job Dom or I will do in America starting in August, or what we will do in two years.
I like to make predictions and try to figure out what will happen through thinking so much my brain hurts because it makes me feel like Im more in control of my life. Yet, whenever I think I know what is going to happen next, Im always surprised by how the road Im riding on will dangle off in a direction I never fathomed existed.
Im tired of trying to be my own lousy fortune teller. How I want to be a horse with blinders on. I want to take life step by step, give up my control, and let my Rider lead the way.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Little Eye Lessons
My right eye had become the new target for a laser beam war. Every time I tried to look at a brightly lit skyscraper or fluorescent sign on the road I felt like the light shot through my eye, making it throb with pain. I covered my eye with my hand, and tried to bury my face in my lap.
Im sure my taxi driver was rather confused about what was going on with the foreign woman in his back seat that appeared to be crying perhaps, or about to throw up. Yet, he didn't say a word, but calmly did his job, navigating through the endless Bangkok traffic and dropping me off at my apartment.
The eternal taxi ride with my attacked and beaten eye was the climax of my inflammation of the cornea experience. For two days I thought my flaming eye was just pink eye, which is something I had never had before. I thought, "Little kids get this all the time, if they can handle this, so can I."
But as my eye got redder, more swollen, and more sensitive, even after buying antibiotic eyedrops, I knew I had to do it...go to the doctor.
Of course in Bangkok, not may people just go to the doctor when they are sick, instead they go to the hospital, which always sounds so intense to me. Thankfully, medical bills are not too bad in Thailand compared to the States, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.
The first eye doctor I saw looked at my eye through a hanging microscope contraption and told me that my cornea was infected, if it wasn't treated properly it could turn into blindness, and now I must wait for the cornea specialist eye doctor to look at it.
Dear me, I was freaked out a bit as we waited. Silly Thai soap operas were blaring on the TV above me, while Dom looked at Thai newspapers and I longed for a huge stack of waiting room magazines to distract me from the thoughts of wondering how hard it is to learn how to read braille.
The next doctor reminded me of Christina from Grey's Anatomy who gets so excited when a patient comes in with an interesting case. She gawked at whatever was on my eye, and said, "Ooo, ahhh...you have inflammation of the cornea!!"
Yes, I had already been told this, so I waited paitently for her excitement to wear off so she could fill me in on what that precisely means. She said it had gotten infected from my contact lens which hadn't been cleaned properly so something had gotten in my eye.
She told me to rest for three days, not go to work or do much of anything, put eye drops in every hour, not put water directly on my face, and to keep my eye protected from anything coming in.
I spent most of the next few days laying on my bed, wearing sunglasses in my room when the lights were on, keeping my eyes closed so they wouldn't hurt, and the best part--being fed, eye dropped, hair washed, and looked out for by my wonderful Doctor Dominic.
Being the constant over-analyzer that I am, I always wonder when such not fun, odd experiences happen, what can I learn from this?
I rarely miss work, or get sick. It is amazing how one small particle of something in my little eye could rearrange my schedule for a few days. When my eye was out of order, I realized how vital it was to my life, and I just take it for granted. I could survive without it of course, but life just isn't as fun with one eye.
It makes me think of how many other things I take for granted on a larger scheme. What if one unexpected thing destroyed my family, husband, friends, faith? I could survive without my parents' sweet words of encouragement, my husband's embrace, my friends' caring concern, and my God's hope.
But how empty life would be...how painful...how boring...how meaningless..how empty.
It is silly to compare an eye infection to losing everything I hold dear, but I hope that I will constantly be reminded, through minute or massive ways, how blessed I am. I hope I won't take it for granted, but use my blessings to bless others.
So step one at trying to bless others. Contact wearers, please clean your lenses carefully to avoid inflammation of the cornea and all its lessons to be learned.
Im sure my taxi driver was rather confused about what was going on with the foreign woman in his back seat that appeared to be crying perhaps, or about to throw up. Yet, he didn't say a word, but calmly did his job, navigating through the endless Bangkok traffic and dropping me off at my apartment.
The eternal taxi ride with my attacked and beaten eye was the climax of my inflammation of the cornea experience. For two days I thought my flaming eye was just pink eye, which is something I had never had before. I thought, "Little kids get this all the time, if they can handle this, so can I."
But as my eye got redder, more swollen, and more sensitive, even after buying antibiotic eyedrops, I knew I had to do it...go to the doctor.
Of course in Bangkok, not may people just go to the doctor when they are sick, instead they go to the hospital, which always sounds so intense to me. Thankfully, medical bills are not too bad in Thailand compared to the States, so at least that was one less thing to worry about.
The first eye doctor I saw looked at my eye through a hanging microscope contraption and told me that my cornea was infected, if it wasn't treated properly it could turn into blindness, and now I must wait for the cornea specialist eye doctor to look at it.
Dear me, I was freaked out a bit as we waited. Silly Thai soap operas were blaring on the TV above me, while Dom looked at Thai newspapers and I longed for a huge stack of waiting room magazines to distract me from the thoughts of wondering how hard it is to learn how to read braille.
The next doctor reminded me of Christina from Grey's Anatomy who gets so excited when a patient comes in with an interesting case. She gawked at whatever was on my eye, and said, "Ooo, ahhh...you have inflammation of the cornea!!"
Yes, I had already been told this, so I waited paitently for her excitement to wear off so she could fill me in on what that precisely means. She said it had gotten infected from my contact lens which hadn't been cleaned properly so something had gotten in my eye.
She told me to rest for three days, not go to work or do much of anything, put eye drops in every hour, not put water directly on my face, and to keep my eye protected from anything coming in.
I spent most of the next few days laying on my bed, wearing sunglasses in my room when the lights were on, keeping my eyes closed so they wouldn't hurt, and the best part--being fed, eye dropped, hair washed, and looked out for by my wonderful Doctor Dominic.
Being the constant over-analyzer that I am, I always wonder when such not fun, odd experiences happen, what can I learn from this?
I rarely miss work, or get sick. It is amazing how one small particle of something in my little eye could rearrange my schedule for a few days. When my eye was out of order, I realized how vital it was to my life, and I just take it for granted. I could survive without it of course, but life just isn't as fun with one eye.
It makes me think of how many other things I take for granted on a larger scheme. What if one unexpected thing destroyed my family, husband, friends, faith? I could survive without my parents' sweet words of encouragement, my husband's embrace, my friends' caring concern, and my God's hope.
But how empty life would be...how painful...how boring...how meaningless..how empty.
It is silly to compare an eye infection to losing everything I hold dear, but I hope that I will constantly be reminded, through minute or massive ways, how blessed I am. I hope I won't take it for granted, but use my blessings to bless others.
So step one at trying to bless others. Contact wearers, please clean your lenses carefully to avoid inflammation of the cornea and all its lessons to be learned.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Holding On
My roughened, sweat slippery hands gripped the wooden, smooth, chalk-stained bar as though my life depended on it. My legs were in a V-shape, stretched 90 degrees before me. They were shaking so much they were tremors before an 8.0 magnitude earthquake.
My teammates giggled at my legs antics while my coach said in a stern voice, "Hold them up, or drop down." I squinted my eyes closed, trying with all my might to break my old record of 1 minute 20 seconds. Finally my slick hands, and wiggly legs couldn't take it any longer. I let go and with a "poof", collapsed on the soft, thick, blue foam mat beneath me.
"Good job Sherri! 1 minute 23 seconds! Go get some water!"
I grinned sheepishly as my teammates gave me praises and high fives while I limped off to the water fountain oasis on the other side of the gym.
Hours upon hours spent doing pull-ups, sit-ups, crunches, splits, squats, running, stretching, back bends, jumps, turns, penny-pinchers, super-man and hollow holds--molding myself into a pretzel and yanking muscles I never knew existed.
I never really thought much about the importance of all our many strength-building exercises. For most of the 10 years I did gymnastics, I only saw it as the torture time of practice, just another part of our jam-packed three hours of work outs.
Today I was thinking back to gymnastics toning and the groaning and pain and soreness which were the only tangible results I saw of our strengthening. We would always try to barter with the coach to skip out on one or two exercises because "Wahh wahhh..we worked so hard today!" or hope that by working slower on our routines, "Oops! There is no time left for strengthening! Save it for next time!" Surprisingly, our ploys hardly ever succeeded.
But without those exercises, I never would have had the power in my arms, stomach, or back to successfully do a round-off back handspring, or be able to pull myself up in a kip on the bars, or spread my legs enough to do a split leap on the beam, or push my arms off the vault to do a front handspring. Instead, I would have always fallen on my face or butt because I wasn't strong enough--and never would have gotten better.
Im at a place in my life in which I don't feel like Im doing what fits my passions, or what I assume I was "created" to do. I don't see the point in it. I whine about the monotony of it, get frustrated, impatient, and just want to give up. But Im starting to see how perhaps at this moment my Coach is pushing me and training me so I will have my skills honed--prepared fully for whatever is next.
I don't know what is next, but for now, I will keep my eyes fixed on my Trainer and keep going while my hands are slipping, and my legs are becoming noodles, because if I keep hanging on, I will soon be able to collapse, and rest because I have gained what I need for the next task before me.
My teammates giggled at my legs antics while my coach said in a stern voice, "Hold them up, or drop down." I squinted my eyes closed, trying with all my might to break my old record of 1 minute 20 seconds. Finally my slick hands, and wiggly legs couldn't take it any longer. I let go and with a "poof", collapsed on the soft, thick, blue foam mat beneath me.
"Good job Sherri! 1 minute 23 seconds! Go get some water!"
I grinned sheepishly as my teammates gave me praises and high fives while I limped off to the water fountain oasis on the other side of the gym.
Hours upon hours spent doing pull-ups, sit-ups, crunches, splits, squats, running, stretching, back bends, jumps, turns, penny-pinchers, super-man and hollow holds--molding myself into a pretzel and yanking muscles I never knew existed.
I never really thought much about the importance of all our many strength-building exercises. For most of the 10 years I did gymnastics, I only saw it as the torture time of practice, just another part of our jam-packed three hours of work outs.
Today I was thinking back to gymnastics toning and the groaning and pain and soreness which were the only tangible results I saw of our strengthening. We would always try to barter with the coach to skip out on one or two exercises because "Wahh wahhh..we worked so hard today!" or hope that by working slower on our routines, "Oops! There is no time left for strengthening! Save it for next time!" Surprisingly, our ploys hardly ever succeeded.
But without those exercises, I never would have had the power in my arms, stomach, or back to successfully do a round-off back handspring, or be able to pull myself up in a kip on the bars, or spread my legs enough to do a split leap on the beam, or push my arms off the vault to do a front handspring. Instead, I would have always fallen on my face or butt because I wasn't strong enough--and never would have gotten better.
Im at a place in my life in which I don't feel like Im doing what fits my passions, or what I assume I was "created" to do. I don't see the point in it. I whine about the monotony of it, get frustrated, impatient, and just want to give up. But Im starting to see how perhaps at this moment my Coach is pushing me and training me so I will have my skills honed--prepared fully for whatever is next.
I don't know what is next, but for now, I will keep my eyes fixed on my Trainer and keep going while my hands are slipping, and my legs are becoming noodles, because if I keep hanging on, I will soon be able to collapse, and rest because I have gained what I need for the next task before me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Mind Control
We finished watching 7 Pounds yesterday and I felt like maybe my husband was going to die soon. My heart beat fast and my arms needed to hold him right away. So I did and said, "Don't die, ok?" He laughed at my dramatics, and I knew I was being silly, but it's amazing the power movies and books can have to control your thinking.
Yet, I love how I feel after I read a book in which the characters become my friends I come to know them so well or watch a movie/TV show that draws me in so much it makes me scream, jump, gasp, or cry; it's like I just woke up from a powerful dream. The remnants of the characters pains or joys still cling to me as the lights go up or the book is closed.
I can't shake Prison Break off me after watching an hour or two the night before. The next day as I'm walking around town I wonder, "What will Scoffield do now that he is in prison in Panama? Oh! I bet he will discover Sarah is dead and be mad at Lincoln..." I ponder sometimes why Im trying to figure it out so much, it's just a TV show, not even reality. But it feels as though the characters are acquaintances I know of, but don't really know, and I want to figure out their lives for them.
Or recently after I finished reading The Secret Life of Bees (a wonderful book by the way) I felt as though I was back in the South, my lips all day were savoring a ripened peach from an orchard in South Carolina. I wondered if the next Thai person would start speaking in a Southern accent and wanted to find August so I could become her apprentice and learn from her about bees and life.
How do stories do that? They stick onto us and, if we allow it, their themes can transform the way we view life. Oh the power words or pictures can have on a person to steal part of their subconscious away and control it for as long as the viewer allows. Writers are the hypnotists of their audiences.
I hope I can use my hypnotizing powers to help others escape the harsh world for a bit and to help plant seeds of hope in minds searching for it.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
-Lord Byron
Yet, I love how I feel after I read a book in which the characters become my friends I come to know them so well or watch a movie/TV show that draws me in so much it makes me scream, jump, gasp, or cry; it's like I just woke up from a powerful dream. The remnants of the characters pains or joys still cling to me as the lights go up or the book is closed.
I can't shake Prison Break off me after watching an hour or two the night before. The next day as I'm walking around town I wonder, "What will Scoffield do now that he is in prison in Panama? Oh! I bet he will discover Sarah is dead and be mad at Lincoln..." I ponder sometimes why Im trying to figure it out so much, it's just a TV show, not even reality. But it feels as though the characters are acquaintances I know of, but don't really know, and I want to figure out their lives for them.
Or recently after I finished reading The Secret Life of Bees (a wonderful book by the way) I felt as though I was back in the South, my lips all day were savoring a ripened peach from an orchard in South Carolina. I wondered if the next Thai person would start speaking in a Southern accent and wanted to find August so I could become her apprentice and learn from her about bees and life.
How do stories do that? They stick onto us and, if we allow it, their themes can transform the way we view life. Oh the power words or pictures can have on a person to steal part of their subconscious away and control it for as long as the viewer allows. Writers are the hypnotists of their audiences.
I hope I can use my hypnotizing powers to help others escape the harsh world for a bit and to help plant seeds of hope in minds searching for it.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
-Lord Byron
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Water Fights
My brother frantically squirted icy cold water out of the green snake-like hose at me, while my cousins Michelle and Natalia snuck behind him with a heavy, plastic white bucket full of water. When I was shrieking just loud enough to distract him, the girls would attack, dumping the waterfall over his head. Of course he always got us back, but then we had even more reasons to invent newer, complex strategies. Summer water fights were the essence of wild and shockingly cold, yet refreshing childhood fun.
I never thought much about our precious water fights since then, but last week I was reminded of them on the streets of Bangkok where we took part in the annual Thai New Year water fight celebration, Songkran.
I felt like I was taken back in time, but instead of my cousins and I against my bro, it was everyone against each other, not in an evil, riotous way, but instead a playful, joyous way. Kao Sarn Road was covered with Thais of all ages, foreigners, water guns, water bottles, and clay. While Dominic and I walked down the street everyone sprayed us with cold, or warm water, or dumped it all over our heads. Some affectionately smeared clay over our cheeks while saying, "Happy New Year!"
My heart wanted to soak up every droplet of the Thai moment that I will miss next year. I love how in Thailand the city takes off three days of work to have a water fight together. I tried to picture Songkran in America, and for some reason I just don't think it would work. I imagine tough, drunk guys getting annoyed at other guys who got them wet, and eventually the water fight turning into a fist fight. Or even no one wanting to join in on the fun because they don't want to get themselves or the whole city messy, so only a few crazy teens play who are eventually stopped by the police.
But in Thailand during Songkran, the freedom to play and have fun that I had in my childhood was available for everyone to take and enjoy. I hope next year Dom and I can have our own mini-Songkran in Waxhaw, if you want to come and join in the merriment, just let me know and don't forget to bring your own squirt gun.
I never thought much about our precious water fights since then, but last week I was reminded of them on the streets of Bangkok where we took part in the annual Thai New Year water fight celebration, Songkran.
I felt like I was taken back in time, but instead of my cousins and I against my bro, it was everyone against each other, not in an evil, riotous way, but instead a playful, joyous way. Kao Sarn Road was covered with Thais of all ages, foreigners, water guns, water bottles, and clay. While Dominic and I walked down the street everyone sprayed us with cold, or warm water, or dumped it all over our heads. Some affectionately smeared clay over our cheeks while saying, "Happy New Year!"
My heart wanted to soak up every droplet of the Thai moment that I will miss next year. I love how in Thailand the city takes off three days of work to have a water fight together. I tried to picture Songkran in America, and for some reason I just don't think it would work. I imagine tough, drunk guys getting annoyed at other guys who got them wet, and eventually the water fight turning into a fist fight. Or even no one wanting to join in on the fun because they don't want to get themselves or the whole city messy, so only a few crazy teens play who are eventually stopped by the police.
But in Thailand during Songkran, the freedom to play and have fun that I had in my childhood was available for everyone to take and enjoy. I hope next year Dom and I can have our own mini-Songkran in Waxhaw, if you want to come and join in the merriment, just let me know and don't forget to bring your own squirt gun.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
A Thursday Collage
Sweet, succulent, smooth, slippery like an eel orangey-yellow mango.
The first words I said to the first three co-workers I saw in response to their, "How are you?"s was "Hot," wipe sweat, "Hot," pull sticky shirt away from body and fan myself, "Hot."
Eating dark and light purple, thick grains of moist rice with my veggies and omelette feels as wholesome as eating wheat bread chock-full of oat and nuts.
Wide-eyed, blonde haired European kiddos on the Sky Train with their backs facing the riders, knees on the yellow with black speckles seats, peering out the windows in awe at the stern skyscrapers, long-forgotten gratified buildings, haphazard construction sites for new condos, and forlorn concrete lots.
I pondered today about how the red shirts are protesting the government for the people and in December the yellow shirts were protesting the government for the people too. I wondered if I should write a blog about it, but decided it's too complex to get into for a Thursday afternoon.
Smiling about the delicious Italian gelatto I ate last night with my friends, one Korean, one Thai, and one Vietnamese-American, in a Thai shop in which there was a cut-out bear display with Japanese gummy bears. What a mingling of cultures.
Still dreaming of the six scoops of gelatto: chocolate brownie, ferro rocher, kiwi apple, yogurt berry, cappuccino, strawberry. Decorated with waffle crisps, strawberry and chocolate syrups, apple slices and cashew nuts.
The gelatto made me hunger for Italy. I long to be sipping a perfect cappuccino at a dainty cafe on the streets of Florence while a cute old man with a beret plays his accordion in the square.
But focus...savor the mango, heat, rice, wonder, politics, and cosmopolitan life that make up the unique collage of my Thai days.
The first words I said to the first three co-workers I saw in response to their, "How are you?"s was "Hot," wipe sweat, "Hot," pull sticky shirt away from body and fan myself, "Hot."
Eating dark and light purple, thick grains of moist rice with my veggies and omelette feels as wholesome as eating wheat bread chock-full of oat and nuts.
Wide-eyed, blonde haired European kiddos on the Sky Train with their backs facing the riders, knees on the yellow with black speckles seats, peering out the windows in awe at the stern skyscrapers, long-forgotten gratified buildings, haphazard construction sites for new condos, and forlorn concrete lots.
I pondered today about how the red shirts are protesting the government for the people and in December the yellow shirts were protesting the government for the people too. I wondered if I should write a blog about it, but decided it's too complex to get into for a Thursday afternoon.
Smiling about the delicious Italian gelatto I ate last night with my friends, one Korean, one Thai, and one Vietnamese-American, in a Thai shop in which there was a cut-out bear display with Japanese gummy bears. What a mingling of cultures.
Still dreaming of the six scoops of gelatto: chocolate brownie, ferro rocher, kiwi apple, yogurt berry, cappuccino, strawberry. Decorated with waffle crisps, strawberry and chocolate syrups, apple slices and cashew nuts.
The gelatto made me hunger for Italy. I long to be sipping a perfect cappuccino at a dainty cafe on the streets of Florence while a cute old man with a beret plays his accordion in the square.
But focus...savor the mango, heat, rice, wonder, politics, and cosmopolitan life that make up the unique collage of my Thai days.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Tar Heel Girl
I must confess. I don't know how a bracket works, the process of how a team gets into the Final Four, or which players are supposed to be the best this year. But the one thing I do know is that my alma-mater, UNC-Chapel Hill, is in the Final Four and going to the Championship game.
While going to UNC I didn't care much about the stats of the games, or how it all worked, but what I loved was the passion. I loved to go to games and see a sea of Carolina blue and white jumping to the same beat; to hear one side of the Dean Dome chanting "Tar" and the other side yelling back "Heels"; to put my arms around fellow random fans like they were my family while we sang our school anthem at the end of every game.
And even after graduating, the feeling of unity lives on. When I looked on Facebook during the semi-final game, every UNC person I knew had written on their status' slogans like "Go Heels", "U-N-C", or "We love Roy's Boys!". Even though I live in a different continent now, I felt so connected to them in spirit as I put up my own status to show my Tar Heel love.
I love the underlying connection I feel with all Tar Heels-- like we are all part of a secret club and the password to get in is "Boo Duke". Just one way I'm reminded of how fun it is to be part of something bigger than myself.
I'm a Tar Heel born, I'm a Tar Heel bred.
And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So it's rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-Rah, rah, rah!
While going to UNC I didn't care much about the stats of the games, or how it all worked, but what I loved was the passion. I loved to go to games and see a sea of Carolina blue and white jumping to the same beat; to hear one side of the Dean Dome chanting "Tar" and the other side yelling back "Heels"; to put my arms around fellow random fans like they were my family while we sang our school anthem at the end of every game.
And even after graduating, the feeling of unity lives on. When I looked on Facebook during the semi-final game, every UNC person I knew had written on their status' slogans like "Go Heels", "U-N-C", or "We love Roy's Boys!". Even though I live in a different continent now, I felt so connected to them in spirit as I put up my own status to show my Tar Heel love.
I love the underlying connection I feel with all Tar Heels-- like we are all part of a secret club and the password to get in is "Boo Duke". Just one way I'm reminded of how fun it is to be part of something bigger than myself.
I'm a Tar Heel born, I'm a Tar Heel bred.
And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead.
So it's rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-'lina!
Rah-rah, Car'lina-Rah, rah, rah!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Homesick
Oh how I miss going to Cracker Barrel with the fam. While waiting, wandering around the country store with my mom, picking out random trinkets for whoever has the next birthday. Sitting down at a homey table and ordering thick, warm slices of French toast with freshly-made blueberry syrup spread on top and with a light dusting of powdered sugar.
How I miss waking up to the smell of my mom's waffles pulling me to the kitchen. Fighting with my brother over who gets the Peter Pan peanut butter and honey first, probably losing, and then spreading it on top, and gobbling them up.
Oh Dad, how I miss sipping a morning latte with you out of my favorite funky black and white mug we got on our trip to Spain and chatting over your not too thin and not too thick banana crepes.
How I miss going with the fam in the morning to a southern mom and pop diner. Eating a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. The buttery biscuit falling apart in my mouth, the crispy bacon melting into the cheddar cheese and the egg holding it all together perfectly.
Oh how I miss making blueberry pancakes for my smiling grandma. When just enough bubbles have risen to the top, trying to expertly flip them over in her cast-iron frying pan. Sitting next to her, savoring and listening avidly to stories of days long ago
How I miss after a morning run with with my mom, getting a glass bowl from my parent's cupboard and pouring in just enough crunchy granola with raisins. Then decorating it with thick and creamy, strawberry cheesecake Yoplait yogurt. And topping it with bananas and blueberries before mixing it in a frenzy and scarfing down the delectable masterpiece.
Oh how I want to be part of those breakfasts the bring us all together again. But how blessed I am to have something precious to miss.
How I miss waking up to the smell of my mom's waffles pulling me to the kitchen. Fighting with my brother over who gets the Peter Pan peanut butter and honey first, probably losing, and then spreading it on top, and gobbling them up.
Oh Dad, how I miss sipping a morning latte with you out of my favorite funky black and white mug we got on our trip to Spain and chatting over your not too thin and not too thick banana crepes.
How I miss going with the fam in the morning to a southern mom and pop diner. Eating a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. The buttery biscuit falling apart in my mouth, the crispy bacon melting into the cheddar cheese and the egg holding it all together perfectly.
Oh how I miss making blueberry pancakes for my smiling grandma. When just enough bubbles have risen to the top, trying to expertly flip them over in her cast-iron frying pan. Sitting next to her, savoring and listening avidly to stories of days long ago
How I miss after a morning run with with my mom, getting a glass bowl from my parent's cupboard and pouring in just enough crunchy granola with raisins. Then decorating it with thick and creamy, strawberry cheesecake Yoplait yogurt. And topping it with bananas and blueberries before mixing it in a frenzy and scarfing down the delectable masterpiece.
Oh how I want to be part of those breakfasts the bring us all together again. But how blessed I am to have something precious to miss.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A/C Gym Dreams
I opened the door and entered a pre-heated oven. In a few minutes, I felt like I was an over-baked chicken, which had been cooked so long that all the juice and flavor had evaporated out. I didn't have any energy left to do anything, much less run hardcore for 30 minutes on the treadmill and do toning exercises on the weights.
Oh ye who work out in perfect temperature controlled gyms don't know how lucky you have it.
I used to be a lucky one. I had a shiny golden card which allowed me to go for free whenever I wanted to California Wow, one of the gyms in Bangkok. I had gotten a deal for a free membership through a friend and savored it. Unlike some of my friends who discuss working out as torture they must endure weekly in order to feel better about themselves, Im one of those weird people who actually enjoy the thrill, the sweat, the challenge, and the joy I feel after a good workout.
I reveled in walking into the refreshing air of my old gym, getting my card swiped, skipping past the many autographed profile photos of famous people I had never heard of who love my gym. Then right before the escalators meeting the huge poster of a woman's face who has a pixie-haircut, a perfect smile, and eyes that wink at whoever walks by like she is saying, "Welcome back friend."
I used to go in the mornings before work, or on my days off at times when it was the least busy. The gym became my adult version of a playground where I could play on any of the hundreds of treadmills, ellipticals, and other cardio machines; bend, lift, turn and twist on the wide array of machines in the weight area, and stretch my worn body in the section full of mirrors and mats.
Or of course there were the free classes I could go to at any hour of the day, but all taught in Thai with only a few English numbers or phrases tossed in. Yet, if I observed closely, I usually caught on fine.
But then it happened: my glorious, beautiful free year membership ended; my golden card became void and added to the pile of the useless cards I still kept in my wallet for nostalgic reasons.
And we moved, to a new apartment complex which had a gym--one of the main reasons we chose to move there. Of course, in Thailand, at a mid-range apartment, the gyms aren't much. They told us it didn't have A/C, but to my tough husband, it wasn't a big deal, we could handle it. I wanted to be tough too, and agreed, yeah, it wouldn't be that big a deal. This was during the somewhat cooler season, when the temperature is around 85 degrees.
The first week I was rather miserable, I missed the variety, familiarity, and cold air of my old gym. The machines in our new one are all made in the 80s and somehow have lasted until now. Long gone are hundreds of cardio machines, now I can chose between only two treadmills and two bikes. And our air conditioning substitute is five low-powered, lint-covered overhead fans spread throughout the whole room.
I got used to it though, and it was nice having the freedom to go whenever I wanted, be able to work out easily with my hubby, and for him to meet new guy friends through it.
But then it happened: the crazy hot season rolled in. I think the temperature must average at around 95-100, but even if it is around 90 or so it still feels like 100 because the air doesn't move at all; it just sits there like the heat has scared all the cool breezes and winds away from Thailand forever.
So thats why this week I have been running as fast as a 100 year-old turtle, sweating through my shirts in minutes like I'm a large 53-year-old man and sucking water out of my bottle like Im a 3-month old starving infant.
At least next year when I go to an air-conditioned gym, or run outside in the morning in 70-degree weather, I will work out with thankfulness cuz of how lucky I am--and if you got that now, be grateful and please say a lil prayer for me every time you work out, that I will survive being baked in my Thai gym oven.
Oh ye who work out in perfect temperature controlled gyms don't know how lucky you have it.
I used to be a lucky one. I had a shiny golden card which allowed me to go for free whenever I wanted to California Wow, one of the gyms in Bangkok. I had gotten a deal for a free membership through a friend and savored it. Unlike some of my friends who discuss working out as torture they must endure weekly in order to feel better about themselves, Im one of those weird people who actually enjoy the thrill, the sweat, the challenge, and the joy I feel after a good workout.
I reveled in walking into the refreshing air of my old gym, getting my card swiped, skipping past the many autographed profile photos of famous people I had never heard of who love my gym. Then right before the escalators meeting the huge poster of a woman's face who has a pixie-haircut, a perfect smile, and eyes that wink at whoever walks by like she is saying, "Welcome back friend."
I used to go in the mornings before work, or on my days off at times when it was the least busy. The gym became my adult version of a playground where I could play on any of the hundreds of treadmills, ellipticals, and other cardio machines; bend, lift, turn and twist on the wide array of machines in the weight area, and stretch my worn body in the section full of mirrors and mats.
Or of course there were the free classes I could go to at any hour of the day, but all taught in Thai with only a few English numbers or phrases tossed in. Yet, if I observed closely, I usually caught on fine.
But then it happened: my glorious, beautiful free year membership ended; my golden card became void and added to the pile of the useless cards I still kept in my wallet for nostalgic reasons.
And we moved, to a new apartment complex which had a gym--one of the main reasons we chose to move there. Of course, in Thailand, at a mid-range apartment, the gyms aren't much. They told us it didn't have A/C, but to my tough husband, it wasn't a big deal, we could handle it. I wanted to be tough too, and agreed, yeah, it wouldn't be that big a deal. This was during the somewhat cooler season, when the temperature is around 85 degrees.
The first week I was rather miserable, I missed the variety, familiarity, and cold air of my old gym. The machines in our new one are all made in the 80s and somehow have lasted until now. Long gone are hundreds of cardio machines, now I can chose between only two treadmills and two bikes. And our air conditioning substitute is five low-powered, lint-covered overhead fans spread throughout the whole room.
I got used to it though, and it was nice having the freedom to go whenever I wanted, be able to work out easily with my hubby, and for him to meet new guy friends through it.
But then it happened: the crazy hot season rolled in. I think the temperature must average at around 95-100, but even if it is around 90 or so it still feels like 100 because the air doesn't move at all; it just sits there like the heat has scared all the cool breezes and winds away from Thailand forever.
So thats why this week I have been running as fast as a 100 year-old turtle, sweating through my shirts in minutes like I'm a large 53-year-old man and sucking water out of my bottle like Im a 3-month old starving infant.
At least next year when I go to an air-conditioned gym, or run outside in the morning in 70-degree weather, I will work out with thankfulness cuz of how lucky I am--and if you got that now, be grateful and please say a lil prayer for me every time you work out, that I will survive being baked in my Thai gym oven.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Drama Queens
Chicken quesadillas. Guacamole. Cilantro. Mango salsa. Fun conversation with a fun friend.
These are a few of my favorite things.
Last night I got to meet up with a Thai friend whom I hadn't seen in awhile and eat over-priced (but quite delicious considering the fact we live quite east of the border) Mexican food--one of my long lost friends I miss immensely.
I enjoyed the food like crazy, and my stomach was so excited to eat cheese again it didn't know what to do with itself.
But I love how when women get together for lunch, coffee, or dinner, the food or drinks are always just a sidenote, something nice to gather around while we pour out our hearts to each other.
I listened to my friend's stories that were bubbling with new loves and lost loves and the many other crazy things going on in her life. I introduced her to the word "drama" and she was so delighted to start calling herself a "drama queen".
We decided that when women get together and share their stories it is like watching a movie of each other's lives. The food is just the popcorn you eat while you are engrossed in the story, empathizing with the actress starring before you.
How fun it is to be a woman--to have a lead role, to share your stories with an avid audience, and to always have a good story to watch and listen to.
Hope you get some popcorn and enjoy a movie today. :)
These are a few of my favorite things.
Last night I got to meet up with a Thai friend whom I hadn't seen in awhile and eat over-priced (but quite delicious considering the fact we live quite east of the border) Mexican food--one of my long lost friends I miss immensely.
I enjoyed the food like crazy, and my stomach was so excited to eat cheese again it didn't know what to do with itself.
But I love how when women get together for lunch, coffee, or dinner, the food or drinks are always just a sidenote, something nice to gather around while we pour out our hearts to each other.
I listened to my friend's stories that were bubbling with new loves and lost loves and the many other crazy things going on in her life. I introduced her to the word "drama" and she was so delighted to start calling herself a "drama queen".
We decided that when women get together and share their stories it is like watching a movie of each other's lives. The food is just the popcorn you eat while you are engrossed in the story, empathizing with the actress starring before you.
How fun it is to be a woman--to have a lead role, to share your stories with an avid audience, and to always have a good story to watch and listen to.
Hope you get some popcorn and enjoy a movie today. :)
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