A Return to the Powder Room

I knew that Muslims had to pray five times a day. However, what I didn’t know is that before each call to prayer there is something called Wudhu. This is the term used for the act of cleaning your hands, face, and feet before beginning your prayer. In addition to this, the average person in Indonesia takes 2-3 baths a day [I only take one, but please keep that under your hat. I can’t help it. I have a very strained relationship with both my bathroom and my water supply that the giant spider I found hanging out in my toilet bowl last night certainly did nothing to improve. As a result, I try to take 100% of my showers at the hotel gym and keep the AC up high at home to avoid sweating.]. So, yes, I would say that I do not really doubt the standards of anyone's personal hygiene here. However, I still have some trouble with the bathroom hose.

I had heard of the hose/water method before I coming to Samarinda. At the beginning of one of Jack Kerouac’s books he spends a few pages on it. I think it was in either Desolation Angels or Dharma Bums where he describes the irony of the fact that the squares think all of the beatniks are dirty, but in reality they are far cleaner because they use soap and water instead of TP in the bathroom. When I think of beatniks I think of "Howl", jugs of wine, and turtlenecks. I had no idea they were anti-TP before the Kerouac phase of my early 20s.

It’s not like I haven’t tried it out for myself. I have been caught a few times without my tissue pack. I can’t say it’s terrible, but it is weird. I mean, I’m a novice. I have so many questions about this hose in the bathroom thing. Mainly, how close is too close? How far is too far away? How do you strike that delicate balance between keeping a hose used by countless strangers at a hygienic distance from your person while having it close enough to ensure the cleanliness of your unmentionables? I’m not sure I’m ready to for this. I’m not sure I’m even qualified to make these decisions.

There is another question that has been plaguing me since I arrived: Why doesn’t everybody have wet spots on their butts? I can’t figure it out. If everybody is using this hose method and using nothing to dry off afterwards, where are the wet spots? I don’t know. My friend Karen and I have had several long conversations about this and have come up with nothing. We have agreed it is simply a mystery we cannot figure out. Have the Indonesians stolen a page from the Mormon handbook and devised some sort of special underpants that focus on extreme exorbancy? Does the moisture evaporate in the intense heat? Karen and I have come to no definitive conclusions.

Perhaps this is why I didn’t like Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert was obsessed with the meaning of life, the existence of God, her place in this vast and confusing universe. Those are some pretty deep questions. I, on the other hand, seem to spend my time contemplating wet spots and butts. Luckily, I have little to no desire to go to India to sit in a cave or have crying jags that last four hours at a time. In the end, I am probably better off thinking about wet spots instead of the meaning of life. At the very least it definitely makes me a lot less weepy. I will leave that other more perplexing job to philosophers and college students who have way to much time on their hands.

Obviously, Sober Karaoke Is Just As Weird As It Sounds

Thursday was Thanksgiving which is actually not such a big deal in Indonesia. It was the first time I started to feel a little homesick-y. It's hard not to miss your family during a national holiday dedicated to hanging out with your family. It's also hard not to miss a day dedicated to eating and napping when you are at work [even if said job is pretty easy and stress free]. I went to Chinese food with two of my friends and even treated myself to a couple of Bintangs [Indonesian beer]. The problem with Bintang is that I'm pretty sure it could be legally sold in Utah. This means that all it does is make me very, very sleepy. [This is one of the reasons I have pretty much given up drinking in Indonesia. Soon I will be asking everyone to call me Michaela L. and showing you all the chips I've earned.]

After dinner, my two friends suggested going next door to Happy Puppy Karaoke. Now, I was aware of the Indonesian phenomenon of sober karaoke, but I had never tried it myself [and yes, you are very, very sober after 2 or 3 Bintangs]. I could not imagine going to a karaoke joint that serves only Nescafe and soda. Part of my problem with karaoke in general is my terrible voice. It's not funny bad, it's just bad, bad. I've known this ever since I was one of only 5 children to not make chorus in the fourth grade. Therefore, karaoke under and circumstances has never been one of my faves.

I have ended up at karaoke a few times before, but more than half of these time were with my friends Olivia and Brian. Olivia and Brian are from Dublin. The thing about going out drinking with Irish friends is that drinks are never ordered, they just keep appearing as if by magic. You can try to slow down or keep count, but this never works. Usually you're simply met with a "Go on! You're grand." After which you feel not just silly, but also as if not accepting your drink would also be rude and ungrateful. As a result, yes, I have ended up at the karaoke place on St. Mark's Place on a few occasions after a night out on the town with my friends from the Emerald Isle, but these were always special occasions. During these karaoke sessions with Olivia and Brian and some other friends everyone had all imbibed enough to not just sing karaoke but to act out each song with the total abandon one usually saves for the shower. There was air guitar, fist pumping, and even some Moonwalking. This is what can make karaoke fun. It's silly. You get the chance to do your best Mick Jagger. However, people rarely do their best Mick Jagger in public unless they have had a few too many.

However, sober karaoke is an entirely different animal. Sober karaoke is a lot more earnest. From what I can tell, a bunch of people just rent a room to take turns singing songs out of tune the best they can minus the theatrics usually inspired by too many drinks. For the life of me I can't really figure out what is fun about this. I mean, if any of the three members of my party on Thursday could sing we would probably be lounge singers or pop stars instead of a teacher, an engineer, and the manager of a spa.

But look! My friends Frida and Randy love it! They have a really good time taking turns singing songs they really like. They sing each song pretty seriously and try to hit the right notes. No fist pumping. No air guitar. No Moonwalking. I just don't get it. It's not like I think that you need alcohol to have a good time, but for some activities I think it really helps. I have to say I think karaoke is definitely one of those activities. Frida is Asian. Randy's wife is Asian. Do you see a pattern here? I'm pretty sure I do. I think I am going to have to chalk this up to another cultural disconnect. I don't understand wishing your friend a happy birthday by pelting them with rotten eggs and I don't understand the appeal of sober karaoke. Singing badly should just not be a serious activity. I think I'll save my singing for where it belongs: at my home alone one woman song and dance shows. It's really better than way for everyone. I also think it's more fun.

Happy Birthday?

The Merry Little Pranksters

A few days ago a couple of my students came to see me. They said their friend was having a birthday and they wanted to have a little party in class. I said this was no problem. They also began to describe a practical joke they wanted to play which I did not fully understand. The girl who was having a birthday loves all things Korean, especially Korean Pop Music. They told me they wanted to start talking about how much they hated Korea, especially it's Pop Music, as a joke. Although I didn't understand how this was funny or how it related to a birthday, I agreed. I figured something must have gotten lost in translation.

I got to class today and they had already started talking about how much they hated Korea. The birthday girl began to get a little defensive. I let it go on for a little while reminding myself that humor and fun is sometimes very culturally specific and pretty difficult for an outsider to grasp or appreciate. However, as a little more time passed the birthday girl began to get more and more upset. She began to passionately defend her love of Korea. I was afraid that she might cry. I started to get a little nervous and could not understand why they would let her get this upset on her birthday. It didn't seem at all festive.

Finally, I asked one of the main birthday pranksters to talk to me outside for a minute. I told him I thought the birthday girl was getting really upset and it was time for them to wrap things up and bring out the cake. Luckily, a few minute later they arrived with a birthday cake and everyone started to clap. Phew! I do not like any tears in my classroom. I didn't want the kids to know that when someone starts to cry I start to act like some sort of weird bachelor uncle.

I told the students that I had been afraid the joke was going to go too far and I was afraid that the birthday girl was going to start crying. They told me that would have made it an even better birthday prank. Now, I was really confused. I couldn't imagine wanting to make anyone cry on their birthday. Aren't birthdays emotional enough?

The class then explained that birthday pranks are an Indonesian tradition. The more emotional and upset the birthday boy or girl becomes the more successful everyone considers the prank. I asked them for some other examples of birthday pranks. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Pelting your birthday friend with rotten eggs

2. Pelting your birthday friend with balloons filled with sewer water

3. Ignoring your birthday friend all day

4. Having a teacher [yes adults get in on the fun, too] accuse an innocent birthday student of cheating on a test

5. Throwing your birthday friend's backpack and shoes in the garbage

6. Throwing your birthday friend in the pond [if you could see how brown the water is here you would realized how truly terrifying this prospect is]

7. Telling your birthday having husband or wife you don't love them anymore. Happy Birthday!

8. Throwing flour all over your birthday friend- Ha!Ha!

9. Stealing the rearview mirror of your birthday friend's motorbike [because nothing says Happy Birthday like a nice car/motorbike accident]

10. Hiding your birthday friend's motorbike

I asked the students if the birthday girl or boy liked these pranks. They said of course. They said they liked them because it showed that their friends remembered their birthday and were thoughtful enough to play a trick on them. I tried for the life of me to envision a scenario where I would be happy to be pelted with rotten eggs on any day, let alone my birthday. I came up with nothing. These seemed more like pretty gross and sadistic things to do to a person and less like pranks. Aren't pranks supposed to be at least a little funny? I'm think I'm going to chalk this one up to a cultural disconnect and stick to my birthday tradition of having my friends take me out for dinner and drinks. I cannot see anything fun about making someone cry on their birthday because I have spent the past 6 hours giving them the silent treatment.

After learning about this Indonesian birthday tradition I am sure about two things.

1. I am not telling any of these crazy children when my birthday is. I will be too busy dealing with being a year OLDER than Jesus to handle being pushed into the Malkaman River.

Yes, they look real sweet, but don't you dare tell them what happens on March 22nd!

2. I hope that my good friend Miss Carley Amigone, a born prankster, does not get any new ideas involving sewer water or rotten eggs. I thought her hiding in my closet to scare me was bad enough [Yes, we were in our late 20s at the time].

Satisfaction with a prank well done, hopefully next time the birthday friend will break down in hysterics!

The Politics of Dancing

I have always fancied myself a pretty open minded person. I have no moral objections to pornography [Although I do worry that the younger generation who grew up with it on the Internet might be confusing stuff that regular people should do with stuff that is best left to professionals {there is a reason why Jenna Jameson is worth around 200 million dollars and I am not}. I also reject the unfair and ,I think, perhaps, unsafe new standards of feminine grooming that are directly tied to pornography's relatively new presence in popular culture.]. I have no problem with strippers. I think prostitution should be made safe and legal for those who are forced to choose this as their profession. If you disagree, please watch the documentary American Pimps and then get back to me. Do you realize that most of these women have to work for free while their pimps take all of their money? This I have a problem with.

I would be lying if I were to suggest that my open mindedness had never been called into question. The idea of something is often far different than the reality of it. For example, when I first moved to San Francisco, I went to The Folsom Street Fair. This is a street fair for the leather community of The Bay Area. Since they don't have any such fairs where I'm from, I was curious. I was also sure I was cool enough to handle it. I soon realized that I was not really ready for this brand of street fair. I learnedI don't really feel comfortable standing next to someone whose entire outfit consists of a pair of leather chaps. It made Police Academy's The Blue Oyster seem like a pretty square and uptight establishment. I ended up walking around feeling a lot like my Nana. I was barely able to suppress the urge to keep saying "Oh My Goodness!". I left early.

This same open mindedness was also called into question when I tutored an impossibly sexy Colombian photographer who specialized in impossibly sexy Latin American celebrities wearing their birthday suits. He once showed me the cover of a magazine he shot which consisted of a Brazilian soccer star wearing only a pair of angel wings. He also once had me listen to him read a one act play in order to correct his pronunciation. The one act play was about a middle aged woman having a one night stand with a much younger waiter. During the lesson I had to define the terms "thighs slapping" and "incredibly aroused". Needless to say, on both occasions my attempts to play it cool were complete and abject failures. I spent the entirety of both lessons with a very deep blush covering my face, even though I was aware that, sadly, he was in no way hitting on me He only dated Victoria's Secrets Models.

I guess on these occasions I was left to wonder if I was really the groovy and hip person that I imagined. Or was I simply a bourgeois, white girl from Worcester, Mass? I mean, should I really be so uncomfortable surrounded some mostly naked people dressed in leather and carrying whips? Aren't tastefully shot photos of Brazilian soccer stars wearing angel wings art? When I consider myself accepting and worldly am I simply fooling myself?

I'm actually not completely sure. My best guess is that I am probably a combination of both open minded and accepting and not. On my behalf, my ancestors created Riverdance, not the Lambada. I mean, I have lived in San Francisco and Brooklyn, but I didn't exactly grow up on a commune or in Greenwich Village. I was reminded of this fact this weekend when my grooviness and hipness was, once again, put to the test. Once again, I failed. I went home early and on a few occasions almost uttered "Oh My Goodness".

My friend invited me out for a drink. I was thinking of not going. However, since I rarely stay out past ten o'clock and am meeting my friend in Australia next month, I figured a little leaving the house practice couldn't hurt. I also figured that if I spent too much more time watching DVDs in my little house, I would most definitely turn into a total weirdo. As a result, I set out with some people from the hotel for Club De Ja Vu on Friday night for my second attempt at sampling the nightlife of Samarinda. I would like to stress that this club is in no was an establishment of ill repute. It's pretty fancy and includes a 4 star restaurant. It is not outwardly seedy and it is one of the only options for leaving your house past 9 o'clock in this town.

It started out okay. The cover band played some Lady Gaga and some Rhianna, both of which I like. However, about 20 minutes later the sexy dancers came on stage. This didn't bother me. They were wearing halter tops, hot pants, and red tutus. This didn't bother me. However, they then moved onto the tables where I was sitting. I have to confess that when there were two young ladies getting low on the table in front of me, this did sorta bother me. Call me old fashioned. Call me a prude. I just don't want to look up and see jiggling butt cheeks while I am trying to drink my drink. Maybe I am not at all groovy or hip.

I chose this photo because it is from my favorite stripper themed video, even though the concept of someone being hot for teacher is becoming more and more far fetched. I also chose it because I really and truly love David Lee Roth

It wasn't really the butt cheeks that bothered me. It was the fact that witnessing third world prostitution [since all of the dancers are actually for sale if you talk to the right people] is sorta depressing. What's even more depressing is that it is so commonplace and accepted that it happens at all the regular night spots in town. It's not hidden or even that discrete. It's also not like watching the strippers at Scores or The Hustler Club back home. Those girls are making around $100,000 dollars a year and drive home in a Lexus. I have a sneaking suspicion that the girls at De Ja Vu are not so well compensated. They are more like girls who were probably the victims of human trafficking or trying to feed an entire family living in a shack in some rural village. These are not festive thoughts for a night out on the town.

There's also a part of me that did not like it as the result of far more selfish reasons. Nobody talks to me in this situation. Now, I can't really blame them for this. Gorgeous dancers undulating on the table in front of you are pretty distracting. However, I am used to telling stories and chatting and getting some sort of attention when I go out with friends. If I wanted to sit and not talk to anyone, I could do so in the comfort of my home. This is probably why I do not frequent establishments featuring sexy dancers when I am in New York. I'm pretty sure that half of the guys sitting at my table had lapsed into some sort of sexual catatonic stupor. I'm not saying that this is not natural or biological or the result of some kind of hormone surge. Whatever it is, I would really like any part of it on my Friday night.

What about me? Who is working to make sure that I am having fun? Who is catering to my needs? Who is doing sexy dance moves for MY benefit? NOBODY. Worst of all, most of the other Westerners there look a lot like guys you would see on To Catch A Predator. Yuck. There were some other women at the club, but they all sit there like there is nothing strange about the situation. Almost as if they can't wait to catch another glimpse of the dancer's bikini line.

My second attempt at going out in Samarinda has confirmed that it is just not for me. Would the situation be different if the tables were turned and there were sexy guys busting a move in the middle of the table? I don't think so. I think the comedian Margaret Cho said it best when she said that if she wanted to see gay guys dance around in their underpants she was more than able to make this happen in the comfort of her own living room. Luckily, I stocked up on bootleg DVDs when I was in Jakarta. It seems like a pretty good time to start re-watching The Wire. I think a night spent with Detective McNulty and Omar beats a night spent being ignored while I ponder the indignities and horrors of the sex trade in Southeast Asia, right?

These guys would not make a great Friday night either

It's Official

Yup. It's official. I totally feel like Pat. I'm not saying that I feel like I look like Pat, it's more of an internal thing. I wrote a while ago about how I felt like Nel Carter. It might sound like the same thing, but actually it's totally different. You see, when you feel like Nel Carter you still feel like a lady, just a really unappealing one. This happens even to super confident ladies if they spend too much time in a nation where they tower over everyone and are constantly getting disapproving/confused stares. Feeling like Pat is a whole other story. It's like the next level. After feeling like Nel for a while you slowly stop feeling like much of anything. When you are in a situation for a long period of time where you are nobody's type and nobody is your type the Patness takes over. I hope I'm not the only one who remembers this SNL skit from the 90's. I also hope that this is not a permanent thing and I don't start buying lots of snug fitting cowboy shirts to pair with manpants.

Now, I'm not saying that I miss the creepy guy who seemed to be trying to look down my shirt while I waited for my bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese at the corner store. I'm also not saying that I miss my students constantly giving me their so very honest opinions of my outfits like they did in the BK: "Miss, today the lesson very good, but your clothes are very bad", "Miss you could be cute. Could I dress you and do your hair?"", or, my personal favorite, "Miss are you pregnant? That dress makes you look pregnant." Although, I did sorta like when every now and again I would get a "God bless you". Apparently, this is a way of saying you're cute in the hood. It always made me feel like maybe I was not so old yet, and, more importantly, that some young man was really wishing me well by enlisting the help of God. It seemed like a win win.

However, in my new surroundings there are no reminders that I am a lady and that someone might be looking to see of my outfit is cute or if they think they should be asking God to bless me. Instead, I get glances when my clothes kinda miss the mark for Muslim appropriate. I do try the best that I can, but the rumors are true: It is totally hot living on the Equator. Sometimes I just can't cover my elbows or my calves for fear of melting. I now choose outfits that will cover as much s possible without me getting heat stroke [almost none of my classrooms are air conditioned]. Any small interest I had in looking like I may have read a copy of Glamour Magazine at some point in my lifetime has pretty much gone out the window.

Make up? I pretty much gave up on that about 3 weeks in. I asked my students what they thought of make up and they said it makes women look like clowns. Since it melts off in the heat anyways and I have always truly hated clowns, it seemed like a smart thing to put the kibosh on. As a result I have caught sight of myself a few times at dinner and thought "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Is this how I leave the house now?" Shockingly, no make up, hair still wet from the gym [where I try to take most of my showers since I discovered the water at my house smells a lot like pond water], and some clothes I sorta threw on in the morning do not really make for such a cute look.

My mother always told me that you should look good for yourself. That fixing your hair and putting on make up was not for the benefit of those around you, but to make you feel more attractive for own yourself. For me this has proven to be totally inaccurate. Yes, I brush my hair. Yes, I try to make sure that my clothes match. Yes, I got my roots done in Jakarta so I no longer look like I'm trying to steal George Clooney's look. Yes, I even attempt to put on concealer most mornings. But the truth is, my heart is just not in it.

Not that I'm complaining. When I signed up for this fellowship, I knew I had no say in where I would be placed. Part of the attraction was that it was an unplanned adventure, a chance to live someplace I had never even thought of. This seemed like a pretty good way to spend my Jesus year and think about what do next. However, I'm just hoping that I remember how to put on eye liner and blow dry my hair by the time I get back. Who would have thought that part of me would miss my students mistaking my classroom for an episode of Project Runway or that just a small part of me would long to come upon an old Dominican guy sitting on a stoop who might think to say "God Bless You".

No, Thanks

I don't care how fresh or tasty they are. Pappa really needs to keep his bunz to himself.

Ok, Australia. It's Time For Us To Kiss and Make Up

In college I had a hopeless crush on my best friend. He had lived abroad in high school, he listened to punk rock, and he had the same haircut as me, the mid 90's bob. I always thought he secretly liked me as more than a friend, but he would never admit it. I was further confused by the fact that none of his girlfriends were as cool as me, or as smart as me, or as funny as me. At 18, I had not yet realized that being smart and funny are not always such big assets for chicks on the teenage dating scene.

This went on for a couple of years. I finally decided I could no longer play the Ross to his Rachel. I had to admit what I’d known all along: being someone’s Ross is pretty lame. So, I decided to break up as friends and spend more time finding a guy who might actually like me back. I was still trying to execute the second part of that plan when I ran into him at a party one night. He told me he wanted to take me on a date and be nice to me. Now, as an older and a bit smarter lady, I realize I should have probably been a little bit more suspicious. Unfortunately, I felt like Mary Stewart Masterson at the end of Some Kind of Wonderful when she gets those diamond earrings. My critical thinking skills were just not at their best. I got all girly for a hot second and decided that after over three years of passing me up, he had finally seen the error of his ways.

Anyways, we "dated" I guess for about a month and I thought that he was finally my boyfriend until the night before the millennium. This was when he told me that he wasn’t. He told me that he wasn’t because his girlfriend from Australian [who he had met on his junior year abroad] was coming to move in with him. In 3 weeks. A plan they had had for over a year.

My fragile little 22 year old heart wasn’t exactly broken because I wasn’t exactly in love, but I was something. Whatever else I was, man, was I furious. I was furious because this jerk had ruined my MILLENIUM. This jerk had not decided to ruin my Flag Day or my Columbus Day. No, those would come again and were not such a big deal. He decided to ruin the holiday which, barring some huge leaps in modern medicine, I was only ever going to have one of. He could have waited. He could have told me the day after the millennium or the week before. Nope. He chose the day of. I knew at that moment that this guy and my failed millennium would be forever burned on my brain. Remember, it was Y2K. everyone thought something big was going to happen. I had been hoping for the credit card companies to be unable to handle the new digit and loose all their records of how much money I owed them. Instead, I spent the evening acting like a crazed millenium dumpee.

Then there was the whole Australian girlfriend part. Australians are known for being sporty and fun. I was terrified that I would be forced to watch this guy walk hand and hand around our small college town in Western Mass with a girl that looked like this:

However, when I finally spotted them out and about she looked a lot more like this:

This made me even angrier. You'll have to trust me when I say that my perspective is not a result of sour grapes. When I saw them walk into the Bay State Pub together it was one of the few times in my life that my jaw literally dropped open and I couldn't get it to close.

To add insult to injury, he also erased the only copy of my yet to be edited thesis on Women in Irish Theater from his computer. My thesis advisor, Professor Golden, declared this act made it a "Post Modern Break Up". Professor Golden felt this was because he was not only erasing me from his life, but also from his hard drive. I will be forever grateful to those guys at Kinko’s who helped me scan all 80 pages of my rough draft after I cried just a little bit.

Now, what happened next was not mature. It was not rational. In fact, in might even be considered a little, well, racsist. However, it happened anyways. I began to hate all things Australian. They became completely intertwined with my memories of my super terrible millennium and the fact that I was left looking like a complete chump [which is still one of my least favorite things]. I didn’t want to watch any Nicole Kidman movies, or drink any Foster’s Beer. I didn’t want to listen to Men at Work, play the didgeridoo, or put even a single shrimp on the barbie. Australia was officially on my shit list. Australia was on my shit list in a big time way.

About six months later I left for Japan to teach English. I was ready to start my new life as a hip, international traveler who no longer cared about Northampton, Massachusetts or some guy who was sorta looked like Uma Thurman. My new roommate and future good friend, Reina, and I were picked up at the airport in Osaka by a sleezy looking guy in a cheap suit who tried to show us how he could get Playboy.com on his new phone. That didn’t seem appropriate. I couldn't quite place his accent, so I asked where he was from. Melbourne. Uh Oh. I took this as a bad sign.

I sat down for my first day of training in Osaka and a tall handsome Eurasian guy walked in wearing a suite that fit perfectly. This is more like it, I thought. Then he opened his mouth and these words came out: “Gooday Mates. My name is Jack and I’m from Oz. You’ll find that this company is 80% Aussie”. SERIOUSLY? I was supposed to be meeting hip, international traveler guys like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach, NOT AUSTRALIANS. They had already proven themselves to be foes, NOT friends. Could this unruly band of thieves and debtors with their great tans and kick ass abs please leave me the hell alone?

A few months later my company assigned me a new roommate. Where do you think she was from? Yes. Australia. She was missing an important tooth and would use expression like “It’s colder than a witch’s tit” and tell jokes like, “Why did the koala fall out of the tree? Because it was dead”. She didn’t do all the much to change my mind about the land down under.

Luckily, I love telling a good story and the irony of the situation was not totally lost on me. It made for a pretty great punch line. I also slowly began to admit that maybe it wasn’t totally Australia’s fault. It might have more to do with one boy who played in a really bad band and my poor taste in the opposite sex. I also began to meet some Australians that I really liked. Yes, Morag, Ben, Mary, and Wendy you can take credit with helping me forgive your nation for the demise of both my Millenium and the original copy of my undergraduate thesis.

I always promised that one day I’d actually go there to bury the hatchet once and for all. I was thrilled when one of my best friends [THANK YOU ALISA!!! XOXO] agreed to meet me there for the holidays. I have to say I think Australia will probably have me at hello. After three months in the jungle it doesn’t take much to make me happy. My hands were shaking with excitement while doing the People Magazine Crossword Puzzle the other night. I won’t get into how a vanilla latte from Starbucks makes me feel because it’s weird. Therefore, I’m pretty sure all it will take is a sip of wine, a bite of salad, or a seat in a pub, before I completely forget why I was ever angry with Australia in the first place. Australia, I hope you're also ready to kiss and make up, Mates, because I sure am.