Poverty Is Boring...

It should be noted that my trip to Thailand and the story that followed are what precipitated my desire to have a blog. I think it's only fair to share that story here. Good luck.
***************************************************************************
Many of you were doubtful when I announced that I’d be visiting Thailand and Cambodia. In this case, you’ll be shocked to know that I write this note from Pattaya, Thailand. I have not, nor will I make it to Cambodia. I attribute this to Josh’s understanding that I would have likely died there. Truth be told, I’m not doing all that well adjusting to Thailand. I forced Josh to let me eat at Sizzler today. It was delicious.

I knew very little about Thailand when I boarded my flight at LAX mere days ago. Actually, I had never done any research at all. As I settled into my Cathay Pacific flight, I heard the pilot announce that our trip to Hong Kong alone would be 15 hours. This was a real slap in the face. I had never put any actual thought into how long my flight would take but I did know that this sounded aggressive. I looked around the plane waiting to identify some other white person who was just as horrified as I was by this news. Instead, I was faced with a sea of Asians and crying babies. This would become a theme on my journey. I was often confused and people around me seemed to think that everything was perfectly reasonable.

For instance, when I landed in Hong Kong I ordered a cappuccino and then received a bill for $55. I was outraged. After like 45 minutes, I realized they meant 55 Hong Kong dollars. I still had no idea what that meant and opted to just hand the cashier my wallet so that she could grab what she needed. I did this a lot. I still have no idea how much anything is or how much I’m spending which quite frankly isn’t all that different from me in LA.

When I arrived in Bangkok, Josh was not at the gate and I had zero back up plan. I just assumed he’d be there to greet me. I froze there for a while until some man in a uniform asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. That seemed like a pretty reasonable solution so I did that for a while, an hour to be exact. Luckily, it did eventually occur to me that I still hadn’t found Josh and that I was in Bangkok. I finally decided to walk about 50 feet further than where I was and that is where I found Josh who had been there the entire time but hadn’t been able to get through security.

With Josh on my arm, I quickly got used to people assuming we were married. It seems that if you check into hotels and resorts with a man and a king bed, people jump to conclusions. I thought about explaining that Josh was my gay best friend and that we like to cuddle but it was pretty clear that no one spoke enough English to understand full sentences which eventually led to me just screaming words and pointing at things. It was a big game of charades. Check! Marlboro Reds! Gay! Even the ATMs don’t speak English. My options for whether or not I wanted a receipt were Want or No Want. Idiots.

Sidenote: All the cig packages here have horrifying pictures on them. Face growths and yellow teeth decorate each pack. I finally found one that wasn’t as upsetting to me and I took to asking for a pack of Marlb Reds with the picture of the man blowing smoke into a baby’s face.

The first night, we went to the most expensive restaurant in the city and I began to think that slumming it wasn’t so bad. Little did I know that this would not be the norm. Josh is real hip to eating street food and I took to eating bread only. It was terrifying. Unless the restaurant had a white table cloth, I was not having it. Bangkok streets smell horrible and I couldn’t understand why you would want to eat like a homeless person. That is until I understood that literally everyone is homeless...or poor...Whatever, I hated it.

I was totally trusting of Josh on this trip which often led to me almost dying. Like the time he tricked me into eating street food that he said he got from a restaurant we had been to. Or the time he allowed a stranger to drive us to a sex show which ended up being a few prostitutes at a VFW. Or the time he had us following some gangster looking Thai man down a dark alley. Or last night when he said we were going on a cruise but it ended up being a non-moving, roach infested wagon in the middle of the sea. Of course I never learned my lesson yet somehow I’m still alive.

It’s very hard to be VIP here. The bus which I typically consider to be homeless fare is literally just a pick up truck with 2 benches in the back. My other options for transport would be a tuk tuk (wagon) a moto (death trap) or a supposedly regular taxi (they’re pink and they smell like curry). Last night I rode on a cart attached to a motorcycle that was covered with blue x-mas lights.

Everyone bows here which I find to be alarming. Each time someone bows at me I find that I’m holding something or lighting a cig and I’ve taken to doing a one handed bow which I’m pretty sure everyone hates. Its not my fault that they keep catching me off guard.

Also, there are a ton of massage places here but when I asked for a mani/pedi these Asians had a total meltdown. They wanted the business but they weren’t sure what I was asking. It took 2 of these geniuses to finally get my nails painted and they ended up essentially tearing my toe nails off in the process. At the end of the day, I considered it a wash cause they were eating something that looked delicious and I found out it was street food. As usual I couldn’t communicate so I eventually just pointed and said, “gimmie it” and they did. I had knowingly eaten street food and I felt pretty accomplished. I did manage to get a massage in. In Thailand, a massage basically consists of some Asian broad crawling all over you for an hour and then they tell you to shower. Not all that different from every sexual experience I’ve ever had except replace the Asian woman with a frightened man and add crying.

Oh by the way, I keep getting bitten by mosquitoes which means I probably have malaria. No big deal.

Pattaya is crawling with prostitutes, which I chose to avoid. I did get some action each night when Josh would attack me in his sleep. By the 3rd day, we built a pillow barrier so that he would leave me alone. He claims he’s doing it on accident but I’m pretty sure he’s into me.

Thailand is not good for the ego if you’re a chubby white American. All these men want are Asians and they’re willing to pay up to $8 to get it. Its horrifying and I’ve taken to refusing to leave our resort which in the end didn’t really work. I was in the pool today and a 4 yr old Asian boy was playing near the water. He threw a ball in, I went to throw it back, and he started screaming bloody murder. Josh has taken to calling me the Big Scary Sea Monster. It’s lovely. The one night Josh and I tried to go out and score some action, I found myself at a Russian Hookah bar. Everyone was so wasted and Josh kept pointing out potentially cute guys. I felt dirty just looking and eventually resolved to eliminate the nightly pillow barrier between Josh and I.

Josh is currently napping which we do every day. When he wakes up, I’ll try to trick him into ordering room service and he’ll try to trick me into eating street food. We have big plans to walk down the beach tonight, ride elephants tomorrow and then go back to Bangkok. Basically, if I make it through the next 48 hrs, I will have successfully completed my first trip to Southeast Asia. I plan to never come beaeeacck.

What If Everyone Was Right? #5

What if Jesus was the son of God? I don't really have anything to add to this. I'm just saying. Wouldn't that be weird?

What If Everyone Was Right? #4

What if we're really only here to procreate? What if my only job in life is to get pregnant, have children, raise them, and die? Wouldn't it be ironic that the only thing I've managed to do successfully aka not get pregnant is the one thing I've been sent here to accomplish. That would be just like me. I can just see me entering the pearly gates of heaven to have God say to me, "What the hell happened down there?" To which I would respond, "What do you mean? I didn't get knocked up once! I did it!" I'm sure he'd end up just rolling his eyes and handing me a baby. Nightmare. Now that I think of it, that's exactly what will happen. I will have avoided the silver bullet in my human form just to be chained to a newborn in heaven. It’s official. God hates me.

Dear Homeless People Everywhere:

Couple of pointers, I get that you’re super homeless and everything but may I suggest you put some energy into your vocation? Maybe take a voice class. Professionals everywhere often take to attending classes in order to hone their skills and I don't think you’re taking your job of homelessness very seriously. If I can't hear what you’re mumbling at me how am I supposed to decipher which demand it is that you’re barking in my general direction? Articulate and project! I barely have time to stop and give you anything in the first place (Oh...cause I have a JOB to get to) and I certainly don't have the time to stop in an attempt to ascertain what the hell it is you’re blubbering at me. Furthermore, I have zero desire to be any nearer to the smell of urine than I already am. If I liked the smell of pee I’d visit my Nana in the nursing home. And if basking in the stench of hot garbage and humiliation sounded fun to me, I'd put some energy into figuring out what a bus is and how to ride it (ugh...poor people are the worst).

Why not pick up a talent? Juggle or something. If there's one thing worse than a needy, vocally challenged homeless person, it’s one who offers nothing. This is a business transaction and you are bringing no cards to the table. You could stand to take a few pointers from my friend Stan. Stan is my favorite kind of homeless person. I see him every time I go down for a smoke. I give him a cigarette and he tells jokes. Stan is making an effort and as a result, he’s constantly smoking. These are the kinds of gifts you could look forward to if only you had the initiative.

Let me tell you what’s not working for you, digging through the trash. Last I checked recycling was not as lucrative as you’re all pretending it to be. Five cents a can is not going to get you a home…idiot. Also, it’s going to perpetuate the garbage smell that lingers each time you approach a stranger making it far less likely for some passerby to offer you anything other than some anti-bacterial gel and a kick in the ass.

Listen homeless person, I am rooting for you! I want desperately to give you a dollar but you’re not making it easy. Who knows what could come of some hard work and diligence on your part. The more impressed I am, the more likely I am to help you achieve your dreams of shooting up before noon. I want you to have all the things you’re driving for in this world. Whether it be a sandwich that doesn’t consist of coffee grounds and cardboard or a new grocery cart, these are your goals and I want to help to guide you on your road to freedom instead of the road that you sleep on. Meet me halfway homeless person. Let’s get you to a point where instead of sleeping in a tent on skid row, you’re sleeping in your car in the parking lot of a Ross Dress for Less. You can do it!!! Look at Stan! Is he homeless? Absolutely. Is he ever going to have a job? Certainly not. But while you’re adjusting your newspaper pillow, Stan is basking in the glory of his achievements. He’s taking it all in. One Marlboro Red at a time.

The Fat Doctor

I can’t remember what atrocious life event initially compelled me to seek a general practitioner. It was likely the horror of turning thirty coupled by an inability to breathe effectively due to years of smoking. I do know that what followed was a string of horrifying visits to a myriad of physicians in Los Angeles, all of whom I believe are trying to kill me.

A transcript of my first visit to the doctor:

Doctor: Hello

Me: Hello

Doctor: So…you’re clearly overweight.

Me: Ummm?

Doctor: Lose 20 lbs.

Me: I haven’t even gotten on the scale yet.

Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.

Me: How can you tell?

Doctor: I’m a doctor.

Me: Ok well I’m actually here because I have a bump on my arm.

Doctor: Stop making excuses.

Me: I’m not, I just…

Doctor: Get out.

I wish that any of that was a joke but I promise you I had a tape recorder in my pocket and that’s exactly how it went down. Truth be told, I actually did have a bump on my arm and that horrible woman, who I now refer to as The Fat Doctor, sent me to a surgeon to have it removed. Luckily the surgeon was very nice. Unluckily, he only had one arm. An Edward Doctor Hands, if you will. After my experience with The Fat Doctor, I was so bewitched by Edward’s kindness that I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the opportunity to perform a one-armed surgery.

On the day of my surgery with Edward Doctor Hands, I brought my friend Farnaz. In Farnaz’s defense, she valiantly opposed my procedure but I could not be talked down. I needed a surgery and this man, hand or not, was the man to do it. I could tell. It was all very minor and it took place during my lunch hour. Afterwards, I was impressed and by impressed I mean drunk. I didn’t remember anything which in my mind means everything went well. Mission accomplished.

For Farnaz, it was appalling. She later told me that Edward Doctor Hands seemed sedated through most of the procedure. She described how he unprofessionally answered a call during the process and was so reckless in his operations that at one point the cyst from my arm flew across the room and hit a nurse in the face causing Farnaz to pass out. What a wimp. For me, it was just like every other lunch break in that I spent the entire hour taking a nap in a strange place.

Last week I was sick, yet again, and had no other choice but to go back to The Fat Doctor. I needed a Zpac and I needed it bad. As usual, our visit was flabbergasting. She started by pretending she didn’t know me (puhleeease). She then opened my chart, acted surprised and said, “You’re super fat.” I was not going to fall for it this time.

A Transcript:

Me: Listen lady, I need a Zpac.

Fat Doctor: You’re sick a lot.

Me: I know.

Fat Doctor: What do you think’s wrong with you?

Me: I don’t know! That’s why I’m at the doctor!

Fat Doctor: Did you know the swine flu is going around?

Me: Alright…

Fat Doctor: Someone just died.

Me: Ok, take it easy. Just give me the Zpac.

Fat Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.

Me: God! Damnit!

Fat Doctor: Do you have a temperature?

Me: I DON’T KNOW!!! I’M NOT A DOCTOR!!!

Fat Doctor: Ya know what you should get?

Me: Ugh…what?

Fat Doctor: A Zpac.

Me: AAAHHHHHH

During this process, she actually did try to take my temperature, at one point, but when she went to remove the thermometer, it fell on the ground and then she just sort of shrugged and wandered off.

I mean…I’m not even sure what to say here. I constantly complain that I’m in the process of dying and it’d be nice to know that a) anyone cares and b) my doctors are not the cause of these bereaving feelings. Clearly I can never go to the doctor again. I told you how I went to the dentist once and that animal told me I had eight cavities didn’t I? Well…never again. In my opinion, no one in the medical field can be trusted. I’m going back to self-diagnosing myself and buying medication off the street or stealing it from my Nana. Ya know what’s great about Nana? Two. Arms.

What If Everyone Was Right? #3

What if drinking to excess isn't the responsible choice? Is it possible, hold on, this hurts, is it possible that drinking to blackout proportions is wrong? How could that be? Every time I've drank heavily, amazing things have happened! For starters, I've made friends with strangers across the country. That's a beautiful thing, yes? We may not remember one another the next time we meet, hell, I may have stolen from you, but for one moment, we shared something. In a world where people are continually too busy to even say hello when passing each other on the street, isn't it nice to know you can get liquored up and share a laugh? Doesn't drinking take courage? Each time I've run from the cops or refused to rat out a friend, I was fueled by alcohol. Every time I start to drink, I have no idea what's going to happen. Doesn't that take trust? Don't I want to be a trustworthy person? Isn't consistency something we find lacking in young people these days? Well I have been consistently drunk through most major life experiences. Isn't that worth anything? Isn't alcohol teaching me to be social? To talk to people? To give people rides home? To run? Ya know what? It does. I refuse to let this one go.

What If Everyone Was Right? #2

What if smoking is actually bad for you? I can't possibly fathom this. I view cigs as binkies for adults. They're comforting, they're warm, and they make whoever's got one in their mouth look adorable....right? Throughout my life, I have continually succeeded through nerve-wracking situations by simply putting something in my mouth. It’s inconceivable to think that this is not the solution. Through breakups, car accidents, depressions, wedding, funerals, cigarettes have always been there, ready to calm me with their hypnotic warmth and assurance. I am instantly relieved by the sound of a lighter and that first puff of the smoky unraveling of all my ailments. What could possibly be bad about this? Threats of cancer and heart disease can't possibly terrorize me to desert my beloved. Everything causes cancer. Each year, the ever-growing list is updated to reveal more causes. Cell phones, chocolate, and wine have all made the list. Then there is, of course, exercise, lack of exercise, Kleenex, microwaves, anything that's been within 15 feet of plastic, cotton, deodorant, brushing your teeth. No one expects us to dodge all of these conspirators so why should I have to avoid cigarettes? No one asks you to not use your cell phone outside so why can't I smoke outside? P.S. This is the fucking dumbest rule I've ever witnessed. No smoking outside? Oh, ok that makes sense. Why don't you just keep supplying me with chemicals and then scream at me for smoking them. Also, if you've ever walked anywhere near me and then coughed in an attempt to remind me that what I'm doing is killing myself and possibly you then I'd like to make a suggestion. Suck ma dick. If I ever see you do it again, I'll mount you and blow smoke in your mouth with your nose pinned. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine. Don't think I won't do it.