Taking Stock

I turned 37 this week and I never thought that age would hurt as badly as it eventually does.

When I was 27 I was so flippant about my life. I think I might have been in Hungary or Romania or somewhere far enough away not to care. Or maybe I wasn't. Maybe I was in Sub-Saharan Africa or Latin America. Maybe in East Asia. 

But somewhere else. 

The point is that I was never here.

That makes life a lot easier to live. Never being where you are supposed to be makes things a lot easier. Dealing with life in sporadic bursts is more comfortable than dealing with it full-time.

A sickness perhaps? 

I certainly have been accused of that before. It wouldn't be the first time. 

So tonight I realized that the man I spent over 10 years with married someone else. The man who was as addictive sexually as crack just got married. My best friend from high school has a baby. My college English professor is dead.

How did this all happen?

And then where am I in the world?

Let's see.

I live in Bowie, Maryland with a gay male married couple. One is a former Vatican priest and the other is a rocket scientist who put the Hubble telescope in the stars, no shit. I am in love with a man from a neighborhood I wouldn't ever have considered visiting when I lived in Philadelphia but who has so completely loved me that I cannot imagine someone else doing the same job. I still have my best friends. I still live and breathe every day. 

I have felt love and generosity from people who have nothing to give but manage to be generous and loving, all the same.

I cannot wait to dice an onion. I cannot wait to plant another flower. I cannot wait to pet my dog.

I cannot wait to hold my mother, cannot wait to touch my boyfriend's smooth arm, see my best friend's blue eyes. 

Wow. Taking inventory is a useful exercise. 

Of course, I will be in Thailand in three months. But it was worthwhile to remember why I am here too. 

The FIRST first

I was thinking back over my history with men two nights ago, because that seems to be one thing in my life that I can never seem to get right.

Personal relationships with the opposite sex always slay me.

But anyway, I was with my best friend, someone who has known me for the better part of my life, and we decided to walk down memory lane.

"So who was your first? Not the first person, maybe, that you loved...but the first? The first FIRST? I never have asked you about that and now I would like to know."''

I looked at her strangely.

"The first what?"

"You know, the FIRST. The first guy you ever were intimate with!" she said.

I should have blushed or been embarrassed but I wasn't. I mean, really, it was so long ago now so who cares?

But my first, my first FIRST, as my friend put it, is just another bizarre reason why I am me.

So yes, the FIRST first.

I hadn't thought about that in a long time.

But that night I did.

The FIRST first was when I was 15 going on 16.

I had become awkward in high school because I was smart. I had spent years beating that damn thing down but somehow it wouldn't go away. I wanted to be pretty and sexy but I had this big brain that seemed to matter more (or at least need more attention) than my boobs or my hair-sprayed hair did.

So I eventually gave up. I think it was the year between my sophmore and junior year in high school.

My mother lived in Florida at the time so I took my awkwardness down south once or twice a year.

That year, I wanted release. I wanted to be free from my awkwardness, my brain that did the thinking for me, my soul that did the feeling for me, and all of that... I wanted to control something. ANYTHING.

So I decided that my sexuality was the only thing available for me to control.

So I slept with a man who mowed the lawn.

Yeah, I know.

It should be a hell of a lot more dramatic but it wasn't. He was a virgin too (hey, we're talking 15 or 16 years of age here back in the early 90s) but he was fun if slightly stupid.

We had, um, "relations" all summer and then I went home. Back to Philly. Back to Connecticut.

It was not nearly as dramatic as I had pictured it. He was the blond boy of the type that I would come to never like (I love men of darker and more exotic shades) and who knows who the hell I was to him.

I expected to be traumatized by the whole experience, or at least left "breathless," or hopelessly in love...00but I wasn't.

I kind of liked it and knew that I would like to repeat it again.

Maybe not with him but if another opportunity arose...

But then he had to go and put me on a plate.

I left and he took the one picture he had of the both of us (sitting on a toilet of all things because my best friend happened to take the picture while I was doing my makeup in the bathroom and he rushed in for the shot and pulled me onto the closed toilet seat) and went to the mall and put it on a plate.

I would have never known this happened. I would have lived free of this knowledge and just like countless other girls who have lost their virginity to lawn mowing operators in South Florida except...

Two weeks after I left he showed up at my mother's house with a plate with my picture on it.

A nice plate, I agree, but with my face and a date stamp on it. Of me and him on the toilet together.

And he handed it to my mother solemnly.

I know my mother, I know her so well.

So she took it and said "thank you."

On the inside she couldn't wait to get to the phone.

"OK, so you didn't bother to tell me that you screwed him but now I have a plate with you and him sitting on the guest toilet in my china cabinet....what do you think we should do about this?" she asked when she called.

Nothing, I promised. It was over.

But it wasn't.

Oddly, my first FIRST first decided to stalk my mother and her husband for a few months. They had a wonderful house in South Florida that had massive windows overlooking the street and the pool.

So they couldn't hide.

So once or twice a week my mother and step-father had to throw themselves on the ground and crawl around on the floor to avoid my FIRST first.

He stalked them.

I have no idea why to this day. But that's what happened.

"That fucking plate, Patti. I never wanted this, this...this crawling around on the floor...this, this...what? I don't know what to call it but it is awful. Damn you, really. I mean it this time. Of all things! My daughter and her lover on a toilet, post-coital, in my china cabinet!"

It passed.

But every single year my mother brings out the plate for Christmas.

Sometimes, when my image becomes obvious underneath a plate of green beans, my mother says, "Yes, this represents the first time Patti got laid and her boyfriend stalked us. Then they took a ceremonial picture of themselves on a toilet. Did I mention how proud I am of her? Would anyone like more green beans?"

Business Class

As if there are not enough reasons to love Australia, they have given me another one.

This is called “Business Class.”

This is my second trip out to Oz in less than a month and when they flew me the entire way business class last time, I wanted to tell them that, really, it wasn’t necessary.

I mean, c’mon, it is an honor enough to be flown to Australia. I was willing to go cattle class.

But nope, that is not how the Aussies operate. If you are willing to spend nearly four entire days of your life coming out to visit them (losing one to gain it back on the way home) they are going to treat you right.

And business class is incredibly right.

On the flight from New York to Los Angeles last time, I ended up being seated next to a Mexican-American UNICEF relief worker who was also being flown out to Oz business class for the first time.

Together, we made complete fools of ourselves for five and a half hours.

“Champagne!” we shouted before snapping pictures of ourselves posing with it and then drinking it.

“A menu!” we exclaimed when handed the dining options---yes OPTIONS---for that flight.

Even after nearly knocking him senseless and then dumping my drink in his lap trying to figure out how to get my table out of the seat, he was so happy he didn’t seem bothered at all.

“Oh no, I am so sorry!” I exclaimed, feeling like such a peasant. “I actually do travel quite a bit…just not in business class...I’m not used to the table being there next to my own movie screen!”

He understood completely.

The best, however, was yet to come.

Although I was traveling business class, I was traveling American-style business class since Qantas code-shares with American airlines in the United States. Leaving Los Angeles for Sydney, I got the real taste of business class.

And again, I acted like a fool.

Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I realized that some airplanes have two floors and that the rich people are on the top floor and the rest of us are on the bottom floor. I have taken at least a hundred transatlantic or transoceanic flights by now and I somehow registered that there was another part of the plane where the “other half” lived but I also figured that I was never going to be on it so I forgot about its existence.

Well, boarding my very first flight to Australia from Los Angeles, I was escorted upstairs to my seat. I kept looking around, trying to make sure I wasn’t breaking any rules by being up there, when the hot towels and the pajamas arrived.

The Australians give you free pajamas for flying on their planes! And they aren’t cheap pajamas that make you itch and leave noticeable red creases in your skin. They are genuinely wonderful, soft pajamas. And they have a kangaroo on them.

(Yes, I did have momentary thoughts of stealing a whole bunch of them and bringing them home as gifts but I managed to get myself under control).

Mind you, it is a long ass flight, one of the longest in the world, but they sure do make it easy on you with all that food, liquor and pajamas.

The best part is that once you board the real Qantas flight operated by real Australians, you are in their world and, believe me, if uptight and unenthusiastic Aussies exist, Qantas doesn’t hire them.

“Hello gorgeous!” the flight attendant called to me, “You must be absolutely dying for a glass of something yummy to ease your way, what can I offer you, my love?”

(The fact that she called me “gorgeous” and “my love” in one sentence immediately endeared me to her, the airline, and the country of Australia forever and ever---I am a pushover for wildly gratuitous flattery).

Afterwards she read off an impossibly long list of wines, beers, and liquors—some I had never heard of before and I do consider myself a bit of a professional—before I had to tell her that, sadly, I can’t drink on flights longer than four or five hours.

I puff up like Mr. Potato head.

It is a sad reality, especially considering that if you want to drink on any domestic American flights you are going to pay out your ass and here, here on wonderful Qantas, liquor was free and plentiful. But I get some strange water retention thing on planes made markedly worse if I drink. I arrive swollen in the face and joints and have to waddle around like that for the 48 hours it takes it to go away. All in all, it’s not very attractive for anyone.

But this lady didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, that won’t happen on this flight! Australian wine does not make anyone puff up- it’s because you get served that French swill on your planes that does it. In either case, it shouldn’t stop you from enjoying yourself my lovely one, now have a tipple!” she admonished me.

Needless to say, against all reason, I folded immediately.

It was too late at night and I was too exhausted to fully have the “bombed in business class” experience that I noted others around me enjoying, but, still, I appreciated the invitation.

A few hours later, in my pajamas, lightly buzzed and watching a stupid Jennifer Aniston movie that I found far funnier than it probably was, my flight attendant friend reappeared.

“More wine?” she asked.

No, I indicated, I was just fine…perfect, actually.

“Cognac? Baileys? Bourbon, perhaps?”

At this point it dawned on me that Australians are either the most friendly and laid back substance pushers in in the world or they fully intend for you to arrive completely drunk in their homeland to lessen any culture shock you may acquire coming from more uptight destinations. If they couldn’t be sure that you weren’t a risk to their national policies of being laidback and friendly, then by dammit they were going to make you far easier to deal with when you arrived by tranquilizing your ass well before you got there.

But no, I promised her, I did not need to be plied with alcohol. I was already in love and fully prepared to declare my adoration for Australia before even setting foot in the place. It happened somewhere between the champagne, the prime rib, the cheese plate, the wine, the homemade cookies and, of course, the pajamas. But Australia had my soul right from that first plane ride, no need to subdue me.

Needless to say, my second time around has been just as wonderful but now I know the ropes. I no longer give people concussions trying to open my dining tray and I don’t squeak and bounce like a toddler and take pictures of myself when someone hands me a glass of champagne and a menu.

Instead, pre-flight, I repair straight to the business class lounge where I can eat, drink, watch TV and get free internet. Granted, in America (where our airline service horrifies others the world over) it is still pretty ghetto compared to Australia, and honestly, most other countries.

I was sitting in the Qantas business class lounge last night, or some night recently---it is so hard to keep track of things with this kind of time difference-- which, because we were still in America, was actually the American Airlines business class lounge.

At one point, I had an Aussie couple creep up to me and ask me, not wanting to be insulting, if they really only got passes for two free drinks and now they had to pay if they wanted another one?

I explained that yes, that was probably the case and, since I knew I could have a glass of wine or two for free on the next flight, proffered up one of my coupons to them.

“I pay almost seven grand for a ticket between here and Perth and I can’t drink for free? Really?” the husband of the couple asked.

“Yes, really. And I am sorry about that. I was just in Australia and I know that you give away really good food and alcohol in your lounges and on your planes and I am sorry we can’t return the favor. We’re kind of broke at the moment and our airlines are not subsidized by our government so even in business class you get Chex mix and wine coolers…it's awful, really, but rest assured that it is far worse in coach!”

He looked momentarily shocked but recovered quickly enough.

“That’s OK, you bloody Yanks have gotten yourselves into a pickle but you’ll be just fine. We’ll pay for our drinks…and yours…” he said, plunking a glass of wine down in front of me. “We’re doing OK for now, I am sure you will return the favor when you’re OK again too.”

I wanted to say, “Don’t bet on it, we’re still struggling with basic issues like healthcare and pensions,” but Australians seem to really like Americans, despite the fact that we serve them Cheerios and Schlitz in business class, so I didn’t want to do anything to further damage that impression.

And, to be fair, Australia has a relatively tiny population and a government that is not compelled to start or get involved in massive wars so they have the extra money to give their citizens free champagne and feed them steak and lobster on airplanes.

In the meantime, Australia still seems to be interested in partnerships with America so you can find me in business class knocking people out randomly with my tray table and coveting the pajamas.

I still swell up on planes, however. Even Australia couldn’t cure that.

Rooting for Pot Plants in Australia

Admittedly, I sometimes think of myself as far more sophisticated than I truly am.

This is particularly true when it comes to language, something I like to think I excel at.

Now don’t go getting the wrong impression here, I am an American and, as such, monolingual. I used to be somewhat bilingual in Spanish but lost that after years of no practice and although I can order beer, go to the toilet, and discuss someone’s sexual preferences in Hungarian, Romanian and broken Russian- for all intents and purposes, I speak only English.

American English.

That being said, having spent years living and traveling in former British colonies, I also have a damn good grasp on British English and can switch comfortably, depending on where I am in the world, between the two with facility.

However, there is one language that I have just recently encountered that I was in no way prepared for, no matter my fluency in American and British English: Australian English.

Ten days ago I met Australian English for the first time comprehensively…and I might never recover.

Mind you, I have two close friends, one of whom I was traveling with, who are Aussies so I thought I was completely familiar with all of the wonderful expressions and quirks that make Australian English so entertaining.

I knew that if I was hungry, but not ravenous, I was feeling “peckish.”

I knew that “no dramas” is a fairly standard answer to “thank you.”

I knew that any sort of uncomfortable situation, from being in a sour mood to being in mortal danger, meant I was having a “bother.”

I also knew, by way of getting drunk with an Australian in Thailand many years ago, that “having a roll” was a very direct way to describe having sex (and no, I did not learn that by having a roll lest you think me a tart, I just came by that information through talking about it… which is quite common with Aussies because they are so blunt).

There are other phrases, all equally as colorful, but, needless to say, I felt fully prepared in my ability to speak and understand Australian English with no hiccups.

That is, of course, until I discovered that we have very, very different terms for activities surrounding sporting events and gardening.

Very different.

In the first instance, which came up while out to dinner with Aussie colleagues, we started talking American football.

I have had this conversation so many times by now that it is second nature but, basically, other countries do not understand American football. They pretty much uniformly think we are a bunch of nancies for dressing our players in so much gear as to almost ensure that they don’t break a nail, actually only spend a small amount of time watching the game versus watching the advertisements, and pay the equivalent of an entire paycheck for a seat in the stadium.

They do, however, completely understand that we waste one entire day a week drunk in front of a television screen in a bar or at home during football season so at least there is a common cultural understanding in that regard.

Anyway, the second or third night I was here--jet lag made me unaware of time for the first five days so I can’t be precise—my Aussie colleagues decided to try to be friendly over dinner and ask me about American football.

Of course, as mentioned above, the conversation quickly digressed into the familiar territory of them making fun of American football until one Aussie said, “Alright, enough wanking you off (which, by the way, means “fucking with you”), which is your team?”

Relieved not to be defending American football any longer, I said, “Well, I root for the Eagles, of course. In Philadelphia we are pretty diehard fans so you would be hard pressed to find anyone from the city or the surrounding suburbs who didn’t root for the Eagles for the entire season if not the whole year.”

Silence.

Crickets, really.

Then…

Unstoppable laughter.

Peals of laughter. Gales of laughter. Tears-streaming-down-your-face laughter.

Thoroughly flustered, I silently asked myself, “What the hell is going on here? Does Philadelphia have a bad reputation in Australia? Are the Eagles a poor local team here? What did I say that is so damn funny?!!!”

My new Aussie business friend said, “You must be pretty diehard indeed if you’ve got a whole city rooting for them!!”

More laughter from them, more confusion from me.

I stared hard at my longtime Aussie friend and travel companion, demanding, by way of a very stern look, for him to let me off of this embarrassing ride that I was not even sure I was taking by way of being my friend and thus him being obligated to defend me...or protect me, in this case.

Wiping at his eyes, he said, “’Rooting’ in Australia means ‘fucking.’”

Well, that explains it, then, doesn’t it?

No wonder they were laughing…I had just told them that an entire urban, and part of a suburban, population was out there fucking for a football team.

Gives a whole new meaning to “being a fan,” no?

I recovered, quickly filed away the note that ‘under no circumstances was I to talk about anything having to do with “rooting” in the future in Australia,’ and moved on to enjoy the rest of the evening…although they still tortured me for days after my mistake…but not in a mean way, Aussies are inherently nice people.

Having traversed, and slipped mightily, on that language effort, you can imagine my surprise when the whole damn topic came up again, albeit having nothing at all to do with football this time.

I was sitting in the Sydney airport, awaiting my flight to Queensland (which is a state in Australia) when I fell into a conversation with a pleasant older gentleman about gardening.

In my supposed sophistication, I have learned that, in British and former British societies, men do the gardening for the most part, not women.

Yes, there are exceptions to this rule but, being a far more civilized and tolerant culture than us rowdy Yanks, it is considered a perfectly acceptable pastime for a male to spend his weekend hours loitering around in the garden.

It’s really only in the United States that we find this odd.

(And, I must say, although my boyfriend Chas is advanced in that he will participate in watering, trimming, landscaping, dirt spreading, and fence-laying, thinking of him on his hands and knees tending to delicate pea shoots brings an immediate bubble of laughter to the back of my throat…American men excel at tearing things out of the ground, not planting them in the ground)

So, after hearing my accent and correctly assuming I was an East Coast American, this gentleman in the Sydney airport started asking me about native plants and vegetables in the northeast United States.

Loving this discussion since as I am (obviously) the avid gardener in the family, we went on and on until he asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks:

“What about pot plants? How do you fare with them?” he asked.

Silence.

Crickets, really.

“Um…sorry?” I asked, thinking I had misheard.

“Pot plants! Do you have luck growing pot plants or do you mainly prefer to root in the soil?” he clarified.

My mind went into crazy overdrive:

“Pot plants?!! Really? It’s perfectly OK to grow pot here…inside and outside? And then to talk about it in the airport of all places?”

And:

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about ‘rooting’ anything? Is he asking me if I like’ fucking’ in the soil or is he asking me if I like growing my pot in the soil versus inside? Is he really talking about fucking AND pot or is it something else? My brother likes growing pot but I never have…so what do I do now?!!!”

So I did what most Americans do when confronted with a cultural misunderstanding: I smiled and talked louder.

“Yes!” I shouted, hoping that would end the whole mess.

Kindly, my new friend said, “Yes? Yes, what, darling?”

(By the way, I love that Aussies call everyone ‘darling, babe and love’)

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…no easy out there, yelling and smiling wasn’t cutting it.

“Um, well, yes, it’s illegal to grow pot in the United States and although my brother has done it a few times--- you know, hydroponics in the basement and all that—I never have because…well…it just always made me a touch uncomfortable…bothered, you know?” I sputtered.

He kept staring at me oddly so, I did what all Americans do when confronted with such situations: I babbled.

"Well, they do grow pot plants in California for medicinal purposes but only because it is supposedly good for cancer...you know, relieving the pain and such. Frankly, I don't really care about pot but I have never grown it, at least to my knowledge...so I would love some tips!" I finished, trying my best to not appear like the biggest asshole on the planet and be culturally ingratiating at the same time.

This kind older man looked at me for about ten seconds after I had finished that verbal vomit and then, for the goddamn second time in my trip, started laughing hysterically.

“Oh no, I am so sorry darling! No wonder you looked so bothered!” he said, smacking his leg.

“A ‘pot plant’ is a plant that is grown in a pot, not a marijuana plant,” he said, “I just wanted to know if you had any luck in rooting plants in a pot rather than outdoors in the soil.”

Then:

“Not marijuana plants, of course, just regular ones,” he clarified.

Now deciding that it really could not get much worse, I decided to ask him a question:

“What does ‘rooting’ mean to you?” I said.

He looked at me oddly but then answered:

“Well, it means breeding, propagating, and the like… why? What does it mean to you?” he asked.

“Breeding, yes, but only for plants…but also cheering and celebrating, although mostly for people,” I said.

He considered this for a moment and then said,

“I have always liked Americans…only a culture like that would be so blunt about using the same word for fucking and celebrating! I love American English, it is so entertaining!”

Indeed.

And, just to be clear, at that moment I felt very sophisticated.

And perhaps very much in need of a pot plant too.

The Price of a Coca-Cola in Africa

(October 2003: The Beginning)

It’s 10am and I am bored out of my mind. The constant hum of the air conditioning and the smell of fresh paint have combined to jab my senses and provoke my restlessness. Outside, the hot sun glares off of white stucco and the streets teem with people in brightly colored clothing. Inside, here in this sterile cocoon of the United Nations (UN) headquarters for West Africa, the only stimuli is the occasional grand entrance by some well-groomed and pleasant diplomat, who checks in to make sure we’re finding everything “comfortable.” I know we’re supposed to be working and using the fine hospitality of our friend, the Ambassador to the UN for West Africa, but I am at a loss as to what to do. It is wonderful to be treated like diplomats; I have always been a backpacker. It is wonderful and it is boring. No one notices. Across from me Jack, my boss, is dozing in a comfortable chair in our pleasant surroundings.

I have to get outside. I have been in Senegal approximately 14 hours and have only seen the inside of the diplomat’s lounge at the airport, our somewhat dingy hotel room, and the hotel bar/restaurant. This morning we were shuttled in a UN vehicle from our hotel to the headquarters and I have been in captivity ever since. I must go outside. I want to see the people, know the culture, feel the intense heat, test out my fledgling French, and get out of this sterilized room. I want to do anything but sit here trying to think up things to do and trying to keep Jack from dozing so he can entertain me with conversation. “You know that Goree Island was a major slave port, right? President Bush visited here three months ago and went to Goree…we should go,” I chatter. No response. He doesn’t care. It is two hours until lunch, my chance to get outside. I can’t wait that long. Certainly we must be thirsty, I decide. This would necessitate me going outside to the little stand down the street with the Coke banner on it that I observed on the way in and picking up two sodas. I propose my plan to Jack. Fine, he tells me, whatever you want to do. Freedom!

Clutching my Senegalese cedis in hand, I proudly march past the guard who looks at me with lazy curiosity, down the three flights of stairs where various diplomats and other important people ask me if I am finding things pleasant and comfortable, and down to the street.

I have escaped.

I am in Africa and I am on my first mission, I shall procure for us two Coca-colas.
This is my first taste of Africa beyond the hermetically sealed world that they have imposed upon me, and I am eager to hit the streets.

I reach the gate that opens onto the street and begin to stride into the crowd and then, suddenly, I am paralyzed. The heat is gripping; I am immediately bathed in sweat. My feet are lead and they won’t move.

What the hell is this about? I ask myself. I notice that my heart is pounding. “C’mon you fool; it is not like you have never been hot before for Christ’s sake!” my mind barks…

Then it hits me- I am the only one. The ONLY one. I am the only white person in a sea of black skin. I am a 5’3” white woman with sweat running rivets into my bra and underwear standing in the middle of the main road in Dakar and I am surrounded by a sea of black people.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I had never experienced this is all my years at my university in North Philadelphia and I certainly have never thought about it much in my adult life. As a matter of fact, friends have scolded me for not paying enough attention to my surroundings which occasionally leads me to wander into bad neighborhoods or places that I should not be. Have I come to Africa to suddenly become afraid of black people? Am I afraid of them or am I afraid of me?

“Move, feet, move!” I beg.

They don’t respond.

They’re staring at me, they must be, I think. I look around. No one notices the sweaty, immobilized white woman standing in front of UN headquarters obstructing pedestrian traffic and looking like a complete moron. Maybe this is a common sight. Maybe I am the only idiot who has had this experience. Either way, no one seems to care. A Senegalese man approaches me and taps me on the arm and says something in French. I look into his face pleadingly, hoping to find an answer to my hellish dilemma.

“Coke?” I mutter like a toddler testing out a newly learned word in hope of parental assurance. He looks at me strangely, points to the tiny stand twenty feet down the road, and wanders away shaking his head, pausing to throw me a bewildered, slightly amused, glance over his shoulder.

I am so fucking white!! How come I never noticed this before?? The interruption of the Senegalese man breaks my trance and I scramble back into UN headquarters, soaking, humiliated and empty-handed.

And white.

Jack wakes up and takes in the fact that I have been gone for fifteen minutes and returned with no beverage. “What is the problem?” he queries. I stammer for an excuse under his scrutiny. “Umm…well, I couldn’t…I didn’t…they didn’t…well they didn’t have any…and… and…I can’t speak French!” I announce. He looks annoyed as hell.

“They didn’t have any?” he asks. At this he stands up, marches out of the room with me scrambling along in tow, and proceeds to stride down the stairs- the picture of self-confidence- and walks the short distance to the Coke stand. He has no fear. He is God. He doesn’t yet realize that he is white.

“May I have two Cokes, please?” he asks, in English.

The vendor passes them over and I stand huddled next to him, slugging my Coke and feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“So”, he says, “haven’t you traveled all over Eastern Europe and the Balkans, lived in other countries, and that sort of thing…that was what was on your resume if I recall, correct?”

I nodded slowly.

“Right”, he continues, “and in all that time, those times, you have never, ever had a Coke?”

I felt my cheeks blazing and I knew for sure it wasn’t the sun.

I refused to answer, hoping he’d give up. He didn’t. “So they all speak English over there and when you encountered the few natives who didn’t, you avoided Coca-cola at all cost, right?” I hate him. I hate this man who is my boss and is clueless that we are the only two white people in Dakar. I hate that he has seen my much touted travel-savvy and confidence leveled by a soda vendor in Senegal. Surely, I deserve another chance. He just doesn’t realize he is white yet, I comfort myself. Once that happens, he will be reduced to a wreck.

We finish our Cokes and he pries the empty bottle out of my sticky hand, returns both bottles over to the vendor, thanks him in French, and proceeds back to headquarters.

“I hope this is not how you are going to act the entire trip,” he tells me.

Back at headquarters I settle into my chair and find busy work, lulled by the sound of the air conditioner and the smell of the new paint. Me, the white woman paralyzed by the prospect of buying a Coca-cola in Africa.

Travel Tales from the Past Series

So I have decided, after a few months of contemplation, to post some of my travel stories to my blog.

Right off the bat, I need to make a few things clear:

1. These were stories written by yours truly from October 2003 through early 2008 before I decided to start blogging.

2. They mostly reflect experiences I had while traveling the world for my job during that time period although some are more personal and reflect other experiences.

3. I have changed names and details to protect the not-so-innocent but all of the stories are true to the best of my memory.

4. I will endeavor to date the stories so that you know that they are events that happened in the past and not recently or currently.

And...that's about it. Enjoy and apologies to anyone who might be offended or otherwise upset.

I'll be posting two now and a more over the next few weeks.

The Just One More Crowd

Last Friday, I woke up bleary-eyed and with an acute sense of panic. Looking over at my clock, I realized that I was indeed going to be late for work. These sort of occurrences produce in me the same distinct feeling students get for years after they have left school but still wake up in a blind terror convinced they have overslept for an exam. Rushing around trying to get myself together, the details of why I had overslept and now felt distinctly sick began to creep into my awareness...

I had broken the Golden Rule: I had gone out with Tanya the night before. Tanya, along with a few other of my friends and some close relatives, is part of the "Just One More" crowd and, frankly, I simply cannot hang with these mythical creatures anymore.

The "Just One More" crowd are the folks who can seemingly bend the willpower and resolve of most mere mortals and convince you, beyond all notions of common sense, that having just one more drink is in your best interest. I look upon these friends and family members of mine with a mixture of awe and decided envy. These are the folks that seem to be able to stay out until 2am drinking copious amounts of beer (or whatever the selected poison may be) and yet be able to wake up on time and appear perfectly functional in the office the next morning.

I am in awe of them because I can barely function with a hangover and, actually think? Hell no. I envy them because, quite honestly, I used to be one of them. But not anymore...most definitely not anymore.

Back in my mid-late twenties, I used to able to stay out all night with my friends at the bar or linger deep into the night at some one's house drinking copious amounts of beer or wine and then get up the next morning and go to work or school. I was not perfectly functional but I could cope and get through the day. Hell, not only could I get through the day, I was ready to start again the following evening!

My mother, observing this insane behavior from on-high, warned me: "Enjoy this now because once you hit your early to mid-thirties, you are not going to be able to do that any longer. Trust me."

Of course, I didn't remember these words when, around the age of 33, I started to discover that, indeed, the six or seven beers I could down without fear only a year before were now making me drunk.

And, worse yet, miserably hungover the next day.

At first I felt cheated by this whole arrangement as I came to the sport of drinking much later than most of my friends and colleagues. The first time I ever touched alcohol was when I was fifteen years old and my boyfriend at the time and I snuck into my grandmother's basement where my grandfather had a informal bar. I was forbidden to see this particular gentleman, of course, because my father had decided he was a "bad influence" on me....which made him all the more tempting.

So Bad Ass Boyfriend and I decided that the very best way to prove my father wrong was to drink an entire bottle of gin left over from some time around World War II, mixed with RC Cola.

Needless to say, I was so sick in the days that followed I was not tempted to touch alcohol (or RC Cola for that matter) again until my junior year of college, when a single wine cooler made my head spin.

This was all remedied when I turned 23 and decided to move to Eastern Europe for a year to teach English to Hungarian high school students with my boyfriend and best friend.

To say that the sun goes away in early October and does not make another appearance until mid-to late May is by no means an exaggeration. Also, we were located in far northeastern Hungary on the border with Ukraine and Romania in a former Soviet industrial city where about half of the population was unemployed.

So what does one do when one is living in a freezing cold climate where the sun goes away for seven months of the year and it is basically dark out all day and all night and you are surrounded by pissed-off unemployed people?

You got it: One gets shitfaced!! All the time.

At first we tried to avoid it...being all American puritanical and such.

"Look at how much these people drink!" I remember telling my boyfriend at the time. "Jesus, they stop for a shot on the way to work, have a few drinks during the lunch break in the damn teacher's room, and then go home and drink a bottle of wine or vodka a night! What a bunch of drunkards!" I observed, condescendingly.

But then we looked around and realized that there was nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, to do during the winter and early spring in this region. You either gathered with your friends at a bar and drank all night or you hosted parties where, well, you drank all night.

And oddly, despite my slow start, I gained my sea legs very quickly (Italian and Irish genetics, what can I say?) and, by the end of my fourteen month stint in Hungary, I was able to single-handily polish off a liter of wine and still function the next day.

And Hungary (as well as Russia, Romania, and most of Eastern Europe) is an entire of country of "just one more!" so it was hard to refuse.

Mind you, this is NOT something I am proud of but, nevertheless, it is fact.

My boyfriend, best friend and I all convinced each other that, upon moving back to the States, we'd chill out as drinking bottles of wine or cases of beer a night was certainly going to be frowned upon and might eventually lead to a more serious issue like alcoholism. So chill out we sort-of did and we reintegrated into an American society where it is acceptable to have a drink or two...but not seventeen.

That is, until I landed my first "real" job in Washington, DC...working with the military. Not just the American military, but everyone else's military as well as an analyst on military training programs. And, much like the Hungarians, men (and some women) in uniform pride themselves on their ability to drink like fish and still function. Mind you, I am not saying ALL military folks are like this but I would say it is more the norm than the exception.

So here I am, this little nervous chick trying to be taken seriously by both the big brass and foot soldiers alike and getting absolutely nowhere.... ...until I happened upon a skill that I had in common with them: I could drink a lot and still function.

Thus, my late twenties through my very early thirties were lived in much the same manner as Hungary and, although the frequency was less, the amount didn't change.

And then came Age 33 and the End of An Era.

I remember precisely when I discovered I had been demoted back to the world of mere mortal drinkers extremely well. It was my going away party prior to moving to Uganda and friends and I gathered at a local bar and partied late into the night. The next day, I prayed for death to come swiftly. Still, I didn't quite believe it and decided that, the next weekend, I would try it again...this time with a bottle of wine. The next morning, I again prayed for death but then thought better of it and called my mother.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I begged her, "I only had, like, five glasses of wine last night and now I think I am going to DIE. WHAT IS THIS CONDITION???!!!"

"It's called a hangover and, as I might have mentioned to you some years ago, it is also called being in your mid-thirties now," she replied.

NOOOOO!!!!!

"It's not FAIR!" I shouted, "I didn't start drinking until much later than most people...they had five more years on me, at least!"

"Too bad," my mother said, "your days of partying and drinking all night are now officially over. Accept it and move on."

And, despite the fact that I tried a few more times to prove the theory wrong, I eventually came to accept that my beer balls were gone...forever.

Now, upon realizing this, most people make a lifestyle change. They begin hanging out with "responsible" and "moderate" drinkers who are well-behaved and are able to actually leave the bar after just one drink.

Me?

No, not so much.

I still loved my crazy drinking friends and had no desire to settle into a lifestyle that included conversations about babies and furniture (what I have determined the moderate drinking crowd seems entertained with).

So I kept hanging out with the "just one more" crowd until I realized that I might just have the least amount of willpower known to mankind.

I finally hung up my spurs and promised myself that the only time I would accept invitations to go out to bars was on weekends because there was no way in hell I could actually expect to perform my job and hang out with the "just one more" crowd during the week.

This wasn't too hard while living in Africa as most Ugandans don't drink and the ex-pats tend to gather on the weekends. But, returning to DC last year, they found me...the "just one more" crowd found me again. I have managed to avoid most compromising situations but, last week, my will was weak and my desire to have a good time strong.

As insurance, I took my new friend and colleague Holly with me. She also has grown up or worked with the military most of her life and was a professional drinker but she, at the age of 33, has also lost her beer balls.

She also knows our friend Tanya, who issued the invitation, and knows the danger well. We looked to each other for support.

"You know Tanya is very, very convincing," she told me. "You know when we get to that second or third beer and it is time to go she is going to find a way to convince us to stay...you KNOW that, right?"

"Yes, but she can't defeat two of us," I said. "We'll be strong for each other."

Yeah, right.

The last clear image I have of that evening was Tanya and Holly dancing to "Sweet Home Alabama" wrapped in the Libyan flag. And the only reason I have that image is because I was photographing the whole thing with my phone....apparently from the floor.

Luckily, DC and the surrounding environs has a fantastic Metro system so you can get drunk and not have to be tempted to drive home so I made it home without hurting anyone, at least not physically.

I think I remember telling some poor Ethiopian cab driver who took me from the Metro station to my home that I loved his country and that, even though I got food poisoning there, I didn't hold it against him.

I'm sure he was deeply relieved.

I would likely have forgotten about the whole thing and chalked it up to a really bad decision coupled with a nasty hangover the next day if it weren't for one factor that always haunts me when I drink: The Collateral Damage Effect.

You know, that feeling that begins to take root somewhere in your abdomen at about the time your hangover is setting in and whatever remaining amount of alcohol has finally left your system for good? That whole "sinking feeling" bit?

I got around to that at about 3pm when my boyfriend text messaged me at work and asked, "So how we feeling today, soldier?"

Uh-oh.

Of course, when confronted with a phone conversation or email that one does not remember having or sending, the best way to handle it is to act arrogant and try to convince the other person that you were completely in control of your functions.

"I'm fine," I wrote back, "just really busy today!" (Praying it would end)

"So you don't remember calling me at 3am to tell me how much you loved me and how I had good skin?" he wrote. (Whew...at least I was loving and not argumentative.)

"Of course! And I do love you and think you have great skin...now, back to work!" I sent. (Oh please let the torture end!!!)

"How about the part where you freaked out and told me that, as a part Arab, I am immune to the suffering of 'my people' in Libya?" he wrote. (Aw, shit...I knew it couldn't have been that easy.)

I decided to get it all over with up-front so I called. "I wasn't drunk!" I told him defiantly.

"No? Well you sure sounded pretty drunk...you don't normally rail against me for not supporting the principles of humanitarian intervention in the Arab world at three o'clock in the morning..." he observed. (FUCK!!!!)

"Yeah, well, I am sorry about that. Did I say anything else ridiculous?" I asked.

"Let's see...wanna hear the bit about child soldiers, the Mormons, the Pentagon budget, or the Mayan calendar?" he asked. (FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!!)

"No, not really," I whispered.

"It's OK, you are forgiven because I know that I put you through some interesting phone calls after dart night on Tuesdays but, really, Patti, I thought you had decided that going out with those friends of yours during the week was a bad idea..." he said.

"Yes, it is a bad idea but, but..." I stammered, chastised.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, Chas is also a member of the "Just One More" crowd. However, he is the mature version of the species and limits his entreaties of "just one more" to Friday and Saturday nights when no one has to go to work the next day.

Still, I often find myself sitting at the Moose Lodge in southern Jersey---after I have convinced him that we are only going for ONE DRINK---eating pickles and peanuts for dinner as Chas begs, "Just one more, I promise...we'll go after this one...I promise!"

But, as I said, he confines these requests to weekends, never school nights. In any case, Holly crept into my office later that day and asked, "Are there pictures? I seem to remember pictures..." I handed over my phone, and the evidence.

"Oh Dear God!! I was wondering where I got that Libyan flag from! Shit, I thought we were supposed to be strong for each other!" she said.

"Well, apparently I called Chas and spoke on such wide-ranging subjects as Arab pan-nationalism to the end of times at 3am," I admitted.

"Oh no! Well, I'd better check my email and phone," she said, running from the office.

This afternoon, around 5pm, Tanya called to invite me and Holly out for "Just One Drink I Promise!" And, resolutely, we both took rain checks.

Just one more, I am not anymore.

Falling Down

Last Tuesday, at approximately 3pm, I walked right into a lamp post.

In Washington, DC. In public. With many witnesses.

As soon as I hit the damn thing, head first, I had the normal reaction: shock, followed by anger at the momentary physical hurt, followed by supreme embarrassment at having done such a thing in public.

I skulked away from the scene of the accident as quickly as possible, rubbing the quickly growing lump rising on the top of my head.

Oh...right...and why the top of my head you might inquire?

Well, I was doing what about 99.9% of Washingtonians do on a normal basis: texting and emailing while walking.

Head bent down over my Blackberry, furiously thumb-typing some ever-so-important message that needed to be sent in that exact second...and subsequently crashing into a lamp post on my way to pick up a cup of coffee.

As I was relating the whole embarrassing scene to a colleague a few minutes later in my office, she made me feel immediately better by assuring me that not only had she crashed into lamp posts while walking and texting; she had also stepped in unseen piles of dog crap and, once, fell down in the middle of the street when she failed to see a broken tile in the sidewalk.

"At least you didn't fall down," she said. "There I was, sprawled out in the middle of the damn sidewalk on K Street with my skirt over my head and about a dozen people asking me if I was OK...it was mortifying."

That got me to thinking about the last time I fell down.

I think it was in 2007 at my friend Kristen's holiday party when I slipped on the ice on the way down her stairs and ended up sprawled out on my back in the middle of her front yard.

I rarely fall down.

Or crash into things.

Or bump into people.

Or hurt myself in the normal process of living.

In short, although verbally I can be the most clumsy person in the world, I am not physically clumsy. This is a good thing.

My boyfriend is an entirely different beast, however.

Chas is by far the most accident-prone human being I have ever been with.

Thank goodness, the nature of these accidents is normally not of the life-threatening variety but he is clumsy...amazingly so.

The first instance of my noticing this trait in my beloved happened shortly after we moved in together. Chas was painting our bedroom and had meticulously cleared the room of all furniture and debris. He is almost obsessively neat and organized so I stayed out of his way while he set about his tasks. (I would have had paint on the ceiling, the furniture, the dog, and myself within ten seconds...so I steered clear of the project.)

Suddenly, from the living room, I heard him gasp and then start cursing furiously.

I ran in to see what had happened and found him clutching his hand while blood spurted all over the place as he held the paint brush in shock.

I am not particularly prone to panic but the sight of all that blood scared the hell out of me.

"What could he have possibly done to himself in this room devoid of furniture, glass, and even dust bunnies?" my mind raced.

I grabbed his hand to take a look and found, thank God, a relatively minor slash in the top of his finger that just happened to be bleeding like an arterial wound.

"How did you do this?" I asked, trying to figure out how he could have possibly injured himself in such a sparse environment.

He pointed accusingly at the place where the wall meets the baseboard.

And there, right in plain sight, was the end of a tack that had previously held a cable in place.

The top of the tack was bright green and the most obvious thing in the world to my eye. But, somehow, he had missed it.

I was about to ask, "How did you miss that? It is glaring! I would have seen that immediately!" but then decided to shut my mouth...it was obviously just a rare oversight.

Except it wasn't. Not at all.

Over the next few months, I realized that my boyfriend might be the world's biggest klutz.

What struck me as odd about this whole thing is that Chas is a fine athlete. From football to softball to golf to darts, he is a very poised and precise athlete. If he isn't a star in all of those sports, he is a daunting challenger and he possesses a level of skill rarely seen in men beyond the high school age.

To add to that, he is also, as previously mentioned, the most meticulous man I have ever met. He is very neat and organized. Chas defines "detail-oriented."

But, a couple of weeks later, while driving him around while he dropped off some information for the dart league he runs, I sat in my car and watched him trip out of the door of the neighborhood restaurant and sprawl out on the sidewalk.

About to get out of the car and run to his aid, I saw him shoot me a look that said, "Don't embarrass me further, just ignore it!" So I did.

Then, a week after that, while "helping" me in the kitchen, he sliced half of his fingernail off with the potato peeler.

"Holy shit! Are you OK? How did that happen? That is the most blunt potato peeler in the world!" I said, running for the band-aids.

Or, when he was helping me in my garden later that week and somehow managed to drag the rake over his foot and bruise his toes black.

"Honey, are you OK?! Dear Lord...how did you do that?!" I had asked.

Or, a few weeks after that, when the elevator doors at the swank beachfront property he manages in southern New Jersey closed on his head.

That time the EMTs came and, when he got home from work, there was no ignoring the fact that he had a welt the size of a potato on his forehead.

"What happened?!" I asked again, getting the distinct impression that these accidents might be more frequent than I had previously thought.

He looked sheepish and initially refused to tell me, embarrassed.

"The elevator doors closed on my head," he finally admitted later that evening as I handed him another towel packed with ice.

When faced with such information, my natural instinct sways between wanting to have a good belly laugh to being concerned as I do love this man and do not want him hurting himself in any way.

Again, wanting to ask, "How the hell do you not notice the elevator doors looming to a close on your head?!!" or "Why the hell was your head in the path of the elevator doors?!!" I opted for a more subtle approach.

"Does this happen a lot, Honey? I am not making a judgement call but you seem to sustain an awful lot of minor injuries for one human being in a very short span of time..." I observed.

Again, looking sheepish, he admitted, "You are the first person to ever notice this aloud but, yes, I do seem to have a lot of accidents. I fall down a lot."

"You fall down?" I queried.

"Yes, I fall down a lot. Years ago, when I worked for the post office, I used to fall down delivering mail all the time. And I do stupid things like get banged up a lot. I don't know why and, honestly, I just don't really notice it anymore...it's been like that since I was a kid," he said.

That was when I flipped back in my mental database to all of the stories Chas's friends had told me:

Chas getting blown off the boat and tearing his hand open while trying to decorate the ship for Christmas.

Chas breaking his leg over a beer bottle.

Chas knocking out a bunch of teeth in a football game (luckily, they were saved).

I had to admit that the evidence was all there from the get-go...I had just not put two and two together: My boyfriend is the most accident prone human being on Earth and his past and present are testimony to that fact.

This started off a research project on my part as to why certain people are accident-prone and certain people are not.

The theory that most unsettled me is that people who inadvertently "hurt themselves" are really masochists who don't feel that they deserve love.

I decided to confront Chas with my deepest fears...

...and he laughed.

"C'mon, Patti, you know me. I actually love myself too much sometimes and can be obnoxious. Besides, as good-looking as I am, do you really think I want to ruin that with a bunch of scars and nicks? Please..." he replied.

I had to admit he had a point.

Chas is not arrogant but he does have a healthy sense of himself and he is very handsome and meticulous about preserving that. He is not into self-demolition.

"OK, so what is it then?" I asked. "I have never met someone who is so accident-prone but, at the same time, so, so...together..." I said.

He shrugged. He had no answers for me.

He lives with it, so should I. It's just the "way it is."

When I called Chas last Tuesday night to relate my horror of having walked into the lamp post while using my Blackberry, he laughed.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Today I was vacuuming and the cord got wrapped around my ankle and I didn't notice it until I tried to move too far in the other direction and tripped. I hit my head on the couch and basically knocked myself out. I woke up and the dog was licking my face but I swear he was laughing at me at the same time...do dogs laugh?" he asked.

I think dogs do laugh although the thought of my boyfriend knocking himself out while vacuuming is unsettling.

But with an accident-prone boyfriend, I measure my laughter and concern equally these days, what else can I do?

But he is NOT getting that Blackberry or Iphone he so badly wants for his birthday.

Over my dead body...or his banged up one.

My life in print

I have always had the very bad habit of taking both fiction and non-fiction much too literally. When I stumble across a book that I find entertaining or enlightening, I try to find as many parallels as possible in my own life and, when that fails, I turn to analyzing other people's lives. Granted, I assume most people have a little bit of this tendency in them but I tend to take it to extremes which normally ends up annoying the living crap out of my nearest and dearest.

I come by it naturally enough, however, as I was raised by a mother who is pretty much a frustrated sociologist/anthropologist. She actually went to school for that stuff and ended up deciding that real estate was a much better use of her creative energy...and paid more. Nevertheless, she is prone to deep thought and analysis and occasionally falls victim to trying to see the world through the theories and ideas of other people's writing, both fiction and non-fiction.

This played itself out, when I was a kid at least, to sometimes coming home from school to realize that someone had stolen my mother and given me Margaret Mead instead. Or Ayn Rand. Or Carl Jung (I liked that phase as I was allowed to be as selfish as hell for one entire week). Or, in the later years, I was raised by Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, and Marianne Williamson. Those were the "self-help" years and not only did I enjoy them immensely as well--my mother was much more tolerant when she was considering people's souls in addition to their actions-- I also very quickly latched onto many of these writers myself, and started analyzing everyone around me.

For example, when I first read "The Celestine Prophesy," I spent an entire two months asking people about their "shadow selves." I needed to know, precisely, if they were prone to interrogating people, being aggressive, being victims, or being elusive. My mother and I happened to be reading the book at the same time so after we fully analyzed each other, we turned to analyzing everyone else in our family, normally while they were present. Let's just say things were tense around the holiday table that year at Christmas...

People who are close to me know that I have this habit and they tend to deal with it in a tight-lipped but good-natured way, sort of like your neighbor's annoying cat that you really want to brush off your lap but put up with because she finds the damn thing so endearing. I have also learned to not be as obvious when I am turning my life or someone else's into an analytical exercise, as I have realized some people (read: MEN) really do not take well to these little forays of mine.

However, despite my most valiant efforts at policing myself, I do tend to get carried away sometimes. Then, and only then, is one person completely effective in shutting me up: my mother.

A few years ago, after I read "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, I was convinced that she had come in the night and stolen my life narrative from my sleeping brain and wrote a book on it. I annoyed the hell out of most of my close friends by pushing the book on them and then, harassing them to read at the speed of light ("What do you mean you're only on Chapter six, haven't you had the damn thing for a full two hours now?!!"), sitting back and waiting for them to reach the same inevitable conclusion that I had: that was MY LIFE.

Of course, most people did not come to that conclusion at all so I ended up having to bait them. It went like this...

"Who does that remind you of, just who?" I'd prompt.

Usually they'd catch on around the time I started vigorously pointing at myself while hopping up and down.

"Oh, yeah...well, I guess I do see some parallels, maybe..." would be the crushing reply.

Forcing people to read books so that they can tell you that they reminded them of you is obnoxious enough, but it also has some unexpected fallout that I don't always anticipate.

My ex-boyfriend, for example, whom I am still friends with, called me after I had forced the book on him and said,

"Wow...did you really think that I was that much of an asshole? Did I really force you into doing all that travel because you hated me so much?" he asked, deeply wounded.

Oops. I hadn't even considered that other people may be drawing unintended parallels to themselves vis-a-vis MY life.

I needed an intervention quickly...before I alienated every friend and family member I had....

Luckily, Dr. Phil was in the house (aka: My Mother).

"Patti, I just got off the phone with your brother and he tells me that you are doing that Elizabeth Gilbert shit again and you're trying to force him to read chick lit...is this true?" she demanded.

Uh-oh.

"Well, maybe...but don't you think that is my life exactly?" I tried, having forced her to read it a long time beforehand.

"Let's see, when were you married? I don't think I've missed many milestones in your life and I am pretty certain I haven't seen that one," she said.

Well...OK, one little thing but...

"Oh, and when did you work as an writer for a large magazine in New York and own two homes?" she continued.

Details, details...

I had to admit, though, she did have a few valid points.

"But, as far as I can tell, you do have several things in common with Elizabeth Gilbert," she said.

I waited for the validation with bated breath.

"First, you both have traveled quite extensively, this is true. Second, you are also a thoughtful and creative writer...." she said.

I was grinning like the cat who ate the canary by that point...

"But the most obvious parallel that I see is that both of you seem predisposed to some intense navel gazing that, while momentarily entertaining, will likely require a prescription medicine at some point in your near future for either yourself or your friends and family in order to make you in the least bit bearable again..." she finished up.

I was crushed but, being that it came from her, I had to just accept that I was being utterly ridiculous AND obnoxious and get off of it.

Unfortunately, I have stumbled across another book, similar in some ways to "Eat, Pray, Love," called "The Happiness Project," which has me back to my old ways again. This time the author and I share little in common so I don't see versions of myself in the text....which is fortunate for those around me. However, I do see many similarities in the author's relationship with her husband which is indeed unfortunate for one specific person: my boyfriend Chas.

Chas, thankfully, has never displayed any signs of fright when he sees certain titles cluttering our coffee table. He rarely comments on the fact that I read an inordinate amount of literature that could be classified as "self-help" or "spiritual." Nor does he comment that perhaps it is a bit odd that these titles are often side-by-side with Stephen King novels.

The only time in the entire history of our relationship that he decided to make a query about my reading selection was when I started reading the "Conversations with God" series. And the only reason he decided to comment was because he had been personally traumatized by an ex-girlfriend who began "dabbling" in being a Jehovah's Witness and ended up following the road all the way down to Tom Cruise-ville.

"Um, are you getting into religion these days?" he asked "Not that I care, of course, I just thought I'd ask because I thought you were, well, not really that into organized religion..." he stumbled while trying to be off-handed.

I looked up to see the terror barely cloaked in his eyes and then carefully assured him that I was not going to become a born-again Christian anytime soon and start delivering sermons from a homemade pulpit in our bedroom. I was just curious and had always wanted to read a book that everyone either loved or fervently hated and see what it was about.

"There's nothing in there about pre-marital sex, cursing, drinking and eating certain things being evil is there?" he clarified.

"Absolutely not," I assured him.

He looked visibly relieved.

Another positive about Chas is that he is one of the males in my life who doesn't really seem to mind being analyzed and compared to characters in my books. Actually, I think he sort of likes it...as long as don't do it in front of other males and make it mostly positive.

There are two reasons for this:

1. Chas is also an armchair sociologist and anthropologist.

2. Chas is a Leo and Leos love nothing more than to be given an opportunity to talk about themselves. (No, not obnoxiously, but they do crave a very high level of personal attention).

In this book, "The Happiness Project," the author tries to find more ways to improve the happiness quotient in her life, a goal I can firmly get behind. She also decides to improve the quality of her relationship with her husband to make it more happy, another lofty goal I support thoroughly. Of course, the first place she starts, in order to set a baseline, is in a thorough analysis of the current state of their relationship.

It being winter and with football season nearly over, I have decided that this will be a fabulous activity for me and Chas to engage in for a few weeks.

The only thing is, I haven't told him about it yet.

I have begun laying the groundwork, however.

Today, while talking on the phone, I began to describe a former colleague who, although I liked him very much, tried to take over everything. Never happy simply being part of the team, this person insisted that he run the show. The WHOLE show. This would lead to terrible squabbles at the office and a huge amount of hurt feelings and hostilities. The sad thing was that this particular individual wasn't trying to do it to offend anyone, he just couldn't help himself, it was his nature.

After a few moments of listening to my story, Chas said:

"You know what? I am kind of like that, I think."

"Oh?" I said, innocently.

"Yes, I tend to try to take things over like that. I am not trying to hurt anyone's feelings, I just naturally tend to want to lead...I feel comfortable being in charge and organizing things...and people," he revealed.

Then, "Hey, you're kind of like that too!" he said.

Breakthrough.

"No," I clarified, "I don't want to lead everything, I want to be a part of everything. I want to be part of every team, every committee, and every decision. I hate feeling left out of anything and not having a voice in something, particularly if it concerns my interests. This leads me to overwork, overplay, and exhaust myself and not give anyone or anything the level of attention that might be needed at one given time," I said.

"Yes, that IS you!" Chas said. "And you also hate taking orders. So while you may not want to be the boss, you make it pretty clear that you don't want any boss."

Yep.

And then, in the shining moment of illumination, Chas said:

"And this is why we make an excellent team when we're on the same page but also why our fights can be so brutal...we have fundamentally different interpretations of....what's the word I am going for here?"

"Hierarchy and power-sharing," I said. "You need to be the boss and I refuse to be ruled."

"Exactly," he said.

Mind you, we had discovered this, although we hadn't yet put clear language to it, about nine months ago. We have managed to compromise on many areas, but all of our problems basically relate back to that fundamental difference in our personalities...I won't let Chas be the boss as much as he wants to be and my somewhat scattered, chaotic style of engagement drives him bat shit.

He and I are also both intimidators/interrogators, those are our "shadow selves." Both of us tend to share the idea that enough bluster and invasive questioning will eventually produce the desired result in the other person.

This assumption, of course, always backfires.

"So what do we do to make sure that we don't end up pissing each other off inadvertently most of the time?" he asked.

In my head, I silently entertained the reply "Simple, you just accept me exactly as I am and never try to change me."

But....this being a happiness project and not a happiness edict, I said:

"I think we just keep trying to understand that we have very different approaches to leadership and decision-making and we learn to compromise more," I said.

"And you stop nagging me to brush my teeth every night and make sure I have taken my contact lenses out?" he threw in.

Slightly hurt, because I have always perceived this as a measure of love and not, as he perceived it, demeaning and annoying, I agreed.

I have yet to tell Chas that I am only on Chapter 2 of the book and that other chapters deal with such wonderfully charged emotional topics as money, leisure, and house cleaning. I think it'll be fine, though, we rarely have disagreements on those issues...mostly because those are areas where I am happy to let Chas lead.

In the meantime, I just finished reading "Infidel," the story of a Somali woman who flees war and poverty to become a Dutch politician and one of the most influential thinkers on women and Islam of our time.

At a few junctures I thought, "Yes! I would have thought that way too! I once said/did that sort of thing too!"

But this time I'm keeping my mouth shut as no one, not even my mother, is ever going to buy my sudden incarnation as an African refugee with aspirations to be a Parliamentarian.

That, I will freely admit, is even a stretch for yours truly.

Although, now that I think about it, I can see some parallels....