Underwhelmed

A vitally important but seldom discussed issue: Underpinnings.

Readers, I've made a semi- solemn vow to discuss *everything* about living here, and in between swooning over the beautiful babies that litter the production floor at work and eating my way through various resort towns, we must discuss the bottom line (Har! Har! I can't pass up a good pun.)

Underpants.

It's hard out there for a pimp...to find underwear that's not labeled XXXL (no way. I don't care if it's the JesusPanties, I ain't wearin' no triple X nothin'), or labeled XL, by which they mean "only kind of tiny".

Seeing as sizes start at "superannuated infant" and go to "jailbait" even in the ladies dept, I was really lost trying to find underwear that fit (both top and bottom).

Side note: I'm not very unusual, size wise, I've even lost weight since coming here, and I usually wear a 36D bra and a size L or XL drawers, depending on the cut. Here I wear a 90C (does wonders for your self esteem, that merrie olde metric system, it does) and I was wearing the "free size" underwear from Lady Grace ("For the Graceful Figure"), (or as I wryly referred to it "Lady Fatty") or "LL" from Wacoal. Wacoal, the only company up until recently that carried anything close to a bra that fits, was a lifesaver. I was able to find 4-5 bras (the bras I brought with me were close to their expiration date), and a few underpants. The problem there was that the underwear were about 8 dollars each, which makes one a bit hesitant to throw them on on an everyday basis. Date night, yes, 9- hour- 2 -hour- commute- on sketchy- public- transportation-workday, no.

So, there was a lack of regular, cotton, everyday underwear. Yes, there was good old Lady Fatty underwear, which was cut in the evergreen "all the birth control you'll ever need" style, but for once I can afford decent underwear, and wherefore art thou, Pantieo?

Some of you may not be able to relate, since it must be admitted that only one (one! and it was Jean Claude Woutier, or "JC" for those of you who remember this guy, it's no surprise) guy who's ever noticed what I was wearing, underwear wise. Once in a while, a guy will give you a muttered "those are cute", obviously repeating something a former girlfriend told him to say, but for the most part, if they're not horrifying, they're all the same to most men. Nonetheless, everyone has their wardrobe fantasies. For my sister, it's having a wardrobe of "dry clean" only business wear, for me, it's a wardrobe of pretty, feminine, dainty, color-coordinated underpinnings.

In the US, I used to go to Aerie (the American Eagle offshoot) so often I had a membership card, where their cotton drawers were 5 for 25, and I usually wore the boyshorts in, like, stripes. Now, I'm older, and the college girl look just isn't enough for me, so I've invested in a few more upscale pieces.

Here, there's only two places to buy underpants in the mall: the department store, which carries a huge selection of 32AA bras and matching panties in "hide and seek" size, and one small section of "Lady Fatty Shapewear" in size "I hate the world".

Also, there's "Bench", which is like... a downscale Abercrombie and Fitch, and it carries a vast selection of teen-friendly bras that could double as elbow pads for RollerDerby Barbie, and teeny weenie panties. I made the mistake of buying one of those "5 packs" of cotton underpants in size XXL and I couldn't get them up past my thighs. Oof.

One time I found a bunch of Kmart like "seconds" at my local version of Kmart (PureGold)in sizes L and XL, but you know how cheap cotton underwear do: it looks "okay" for about 2 washes and then it looks like " Ozarks Meth label confidential- film at 11". So those lasted, oh, a month or so. Basically, every time I went to the department store I was searching for those elusive every once in a while size XL drawers from brands that kind of fit. Oh, the high class life. It's not for everyone.

Well, enter La Senza, a blatant Victoria's Secret Rip off that I stumbled on while in Manila this past weekend. (I also finally found a Gap with a Gap body section, and bought some underwear there as well.) I was able to load UP on cute, printed, cotton/ Lycra mix underpants in my size. 7 for 20, bras for 10 each, (I got 2), and slightly more elaborate undies 5 for 20.

And it looks and fits "normally" (failed brands include Sooggi (should be called "Teeny") Jockey (the MOST UNCOMFORTABLE panties I've EVER worn, they were like wearing half a girdle. The lower half.) and Marks and Spencer's-- M&S was especially bad- their boy shorts' elastic was designed by a serial killer, it's so awful).


I can also recommend "Floozie/French Frost" (I know, will underwear makers ever learn that ladies who wear underwear are not the target market for labels implying that they don't wear underwear?) Their underwear is killingly expensive but very cute- printed cotton in upscale prints like luggage tags or lemons and limes (kind of a Lily Parish with the volume down type of thing), and a little metal charm sewn in ribbon on the front. Hand wash only! I treated myself to a few pairs when I went to Manila over Christmas. It's available at Debenham's Department store.

Ladies, we all know that underwear can ruin your day (creepy- creepy, bindy- bindy, wedgie, wedgie) or make you feel great, and it's always best when it does the latter (nicey- nicey).

Up

Inspired by the completely addictive column of Patrick Smith, here's a digression from the usual topic:

Flights- a flight a day calendar.

The first flight I ever took was to Russia out of Newark at age 13. There was a leg from Rochester, NY, to Newark (which I dearly wish I had taken, as the group I was with totally bonded on that flight, apparently, leaving me at a serious disadvantage for the rest of the trip), but I was on a family vacation prior to the trip and we took the car to Newark.

This flight was, from my dim recollection, like riding a bus. We scampered up and down the aisles, switched seats, perched on armrests to talk to one another, etc, etc. (lucky flight attendants!), I recall listening to two cassettes over and over: Red Rain by Peter Gabriel (I'm probably misidentifying this album title, so feel free to correct me- maybe it was "Big Time"?), and Hysteria by Def Leppard (an album that is tailor- made for flying, what with the explosive, liquid nitrogen song that is Rocket Man, the slow honey hum of "Love Bites", and the rattle and soar of "Women".).

I can't remember much about this, or much about the probably 100 or more flights I took to visit my dad in Philly from Rochester, every other weekend for about 4 years, except for one memorable flight I was accidentally put in First Class, and that I was able to listen to my Discman all through the flights in those days, even on takeoff (!!). If you were to make a hipster music video of my flights through the ages, you would start with a taxi- yellow "sport" Walkman, then go to the Discman, then the first gen iPod, then a shot of me playing with the latest iPod Touch in cerulean, in the Chicago airport, Tokyo-bound last year.

Somewhere between 13 and 21 I went from jaded flier to fearful (Sept 11, anyone?) and the flight I took at age 25 was hair raising- a two- leg flight from Rochester to St. Louis/ Kentucky and then another leg to Denver for a five day vacation. What's worse than the caul of death you feel during decent? Knowing you'll have to endure it again in just a few hours on the second leg of your flight.

However, the flights themselves, and the airports, are a blur. The only airport I have any clear memories of is Rochester, NY, which is airy, clean, and pretty, with a McDo that opens at 5 am, thank god. JFK is indeed "grimy" as Patrick Smith points out, and I had to hang out with an NYC based friend during a four hour layover in a dingy semi-bowels area that was open to the freezing street and had like, 5 tatty little chairs and a "Half Starbucks" (It was still better than nothing, I 'spose). I can recall the Denver airport having several "green" initiatives and a Body Shop store, and being very, very crowded. Also, the Atlanta airport is the 10th circle of Hell. It's somehow designed to crush your soul.

The flight from hell: actually I had it good: a super storm slammed the east coast, and I foolishly flew out of Buffalo to connect through ATL to Baton Rouge,despite the worsening weather, where I was supposed to present at an academic conference. (It sounds a lot more glamorous than it was, but it was still pretty damn cool.) I was naturally stranded at ATL, and riding the snake machine people mover, walking the entire length of the earth to stand in the freezing cold for my hotel shuttle, was akin to karmic retribution for sins I wasn't even sure I'd committed yet.

I do recall there was a busload of blonde, handsome, affable pilots and crew on with me in the shuttle, and they were planning on going out to the hotel bar. I was scheduled for a 6.30 AM back to Buffalo, as there were no flights to Baton Rouge, and I barely made the Buffalo flight. I was lucky, my plane had a mechanical failure, so I was given a hotel voucher, others not so lucky were left in airport (the airline won't compensate you if you're fool enough to fly in extreme weather and you miss your connection due to weather- I sort of agree, it's not their fault, but then again I had a hotel room) , which had become a crowd scene from an Indiana Jones movie. Now, a few years later, I'd like to think I would join these handsome, carefree guys for a few drinks and take a later flight, but then I was heartbroken over not being able to go to the conference and I just lay there in my sterile luxury and cried.

The flight home from ATL to Buffalo was terrifying. Even the businessmen behind me were nervous "Where the fuck they putting this fucker down?" They blustered, exactly vocalizing my thoughts, as the plane wobbled in over a frozen Lake Eerie, giving us passengers the feeling that it was about, oh, 1 inch above the water. We were all a tad over-anxious.

My flights from my homeland to my new homeland, the Philippines, were charmed, and you can read about them in my first blog entry, but I think the length of the flights, and the exhausting lines, layovers, and security screenings all contributed to a lovely cognitive dissonance that wrapped me in warm fuzzy of gentle awe as we glided into Narita, which, while for sure overcrowded, is so clean it's surgical. I was so happy to be there I was thrilling to things like Yen signs on food, so I'm not in any position to criticize.

On my way through Narita back to NYC I was a little more critical (the long hallways with no markings they send you through from the gate to the snakes and ladders departure gates are a phobia maker in and of themselves-- one suffers from the distinct sensation of being "corralled", which is never pleasant), but the twinkle of Japanese fashion stars sprinkled through the airport, looking amazing and otherworldly, yet ultra cool, made up for that. Wearing odd, yet amazingly well constructed Eastern influenced haute couture, they are part of a group of people that exist in every airport everywhere: Professional Travelers.

They're groomed. Their skin looks dewy. They order Jack Daniels or white wine. They somehow never create a mountain of trash with their in flight meal. They're glued to their animal skin covered Blackberry. They look like Audrey Hepburn on the telephone on her wedding day (see above), they read casually and calmly, with a pencil in their beautiful mouth, while the plane rattles and shakes like a third- world bus on a mountain overpass, and they fill in that last square of the crossword puzzle, and on touchdown the stretch like a panther and finally notice you. "Stayin' in CHI?" they ask with a lazy, gorgeous smile. "See ya later, partner."

Their luggage is never broken. It weighs about 5 ounces, as they swing it down from the overhead bin effortlessly, while you try to cram your tatty paperback into your overstuffed canvas carryall with the PBS logo all but washed out on the side. Long live PTs.

The most beautiful flight I took (that I can recall, my pictures of Eastern Europe, taken out of the window on my long haul to Russia, are amazing, but I can't for the life of me remember the sights) was the Dulles to NYC coming home from the US just this last November. I didn't write about this trip, time got away from me, but the decent into JFK over the water and over (I think) the Hamptons in winter, was stunning. Getting incrementally closer to the mansions and brown, wind swept sands, then watching the ground get more and more crowded by houses, football fields, apartments, parking lots, and all that, in the mid morning sun, was enough to bring a lump to the throat of Joe Pesci. It was as if the city and it's outlaying areas had flung down a red carpet for our flight path, just for us.

One memorable moment from my recent long haul Tokyo- NYC ("our estimated flight time today is 13 hours 45 minutes" the flight attendants chirped over the mike. Oh, is that all!) was mid-flight over the Arctic Circle, there was a line for the loo, and some of us milled around in the bulkhead area, peeping out the window at the spectacular play of white capped mountains and snow far, far below. I have no idea where we were, but it was a cool moment: a group of strangers taking tacit turns marvelling out a little window at the unknown delights and terrors below.

This was on a plane that had a little spiral staircase to an upper level, as well as two boarding doors-- sorry Patrick, haven't a clue what the name is-- but I will say I do like it when the flight attendants announce what type of plane it is on the boarding announcements, it gives me an entirely unearned swell of pride, some kind of "This is what it's all about- 'Welcome aboard the Blah Blah airlines 747 Airjet' (or whatever they say-)- this is living"( and I love when they say "YOUR 747 comes equipped with 8 doors, two over the aft cabin, etc, etc"-- MY PLANE! MINE!!) , but I can never recall what they say. I remember being thrilled by the gaudy, whimsical colors of a KoreaAir plane that was parked up in the gate next to mine- it was painted with a kind of carnival mask in gold and pink, and it was as bold as brass. Welcome to Asia.

I look out the window. Aside from being heart-rendingly cool, and a (usually) once in lifetime experience,it actually helps with being afraid. The other things that help: Thinking, over and over "The pilot doesn't want to crash any more than you do." Reading the scariest book you can find. (Usually early Stephen King, from when he really knew how to bring it.) Taking sleeping pills (although they can give you very odd dreams and leave you in a kind of half awake state that can be very frightening). Talking to a friend. Being on a plane trip you really want to take. Thinking about car crashes. Reminding yourself that even private jets have turbulence (as demonstrated by that extremely scientific show, Criminal Minds). Trying to "be cool" for some kind of self image that you're always carving away at. Walking around a bit, trying to pretend it's a Greyhound bus.

I'm still not a super calm fly-er, but then again, who is in this age of "no liquid" and padding through the security post in stocking feet, and kissing loved ones goodbye at the curb, instead of at the jetway?

A half life of flights, even scary ones, is better than one that never leaves the ground.

Land of Pine

I am blessed by the Universe to be able to see this. Yes, this will be funny and sharp, but this entry is also a bit more woo-woo than usual, because I feel legitimately overwhelmed by the generosity of the world to offer me this, in my already amazing lifetime.
My New Years' Resolution was to travel, and my resolution of the heart was to really try to get to know the Filipino culture and really make a sincere effort to learn, including the language. So my first order of business was to plan a trip to Baguio, which my roommate is from, and which was featured in Lonely Planet Magazine. People are always recommending the place, but then again, people are also always recommending their little island hamlet too, so I took it with a grain of salt. Well, I can say I have never, and I mean never, been to a place like this. I can truly say that this place is one of the most astonishingly beautiful places I've been to. And I've been places besides Niagara Falls, CA. (Although I've been there too.)
The bus ride began at 10.00 AM, on the Genesis Line. It was a pretty cool 4 hours, including two potty breaks and about 20 minutes (that felt like 5 hours) of waiting to go up the final stretch of one way road that lead to the town. Erwin came with, natch. While we were on the bus I had planned to occupy myself with the "new" Stephen King "Under the Dome"- 900 pages of fun (it's really great so far) but I also chatted with Erwin and enjoyed the view.
There was a striking looking young man on the bus that happened to be seated next to Erwin for the first hour or so until we switched seats to be together (this in and of itself was surprising, Erwin's usually about as in tune with someone else's feelings as a strawberry is to a hummingbird, and it was his idea to sit together), and Erwin commented on him "That guy's Igorat [one of the Aboriginal Tribal Peoples]."

Then he launched into the longest cultural commentary I've ever heard him make, explaining he could tell this by the bag the guy carried, which is handmade and a symbol of tribal pride. Erwin himself is half Igorat, something he's never told me, and he explained that this tribe used to be the headhunters who would prey on the Ita (the very physically tiny race that's the Aboriginal Tribe of the Pampagna area.). He explained that the bag is very sturdy, and very expensive, as it is handmade by the Igorat tribe. This information was quite a treat, coming from the normally very quiet Erwin, but it turned out to be a bellwether for a new, more relaxed and very pleasant Erwin that emerged on the trip.
After trudging up the inclined road to the bus station proper to find a bathroom and a badly needed Pepsi, we hopped a cab to the hotel, Casa Vallejo. I picked this online, sold after I saw it had a bookstore on the premises, as well as a five star restaurant featured in the Miele guide. Well, it was a find. It's a very cozy, quaint and truly charming place. Over 100 years old, it's been redone in a very simple, yet tasteful way. Wool carpets, brown, taupe and grey paint, simple yet welcoming furnishings. The room was small and the TV could have used a stand (it was hanging off the wall in such a way that one looked around for a group of dudes drinking beer and watching the game to materialize any second), but it was clean and serene- very "Real Simple" magazine. We dumped our stuff and then went to SM Baguio to eat, wandering around in a daze, then settling on Pizza Hut. Erwin settled on spaghetti (his favorite meal) and instead of nibbling the food like the Tasty Treats Persian cat and then proclaiming it overpriced, as usual, he horked it down and said it was good. My mind was reeling.
The piece de resistance was when I was in the wine store in line, having picked up a bottle of chard for watching TV with later, and Erwin toddled off to talk to the security guard. He returned announcing "The Ben Cab, that's a museum that the security guard told me about." At the time I didn't think anything of it, and I pulled out my torn out Lonely Planet magazine pages, and showed him "Headed there tomorrow, man. I do my research!" He asked for the pages and then pored over them (he loves, like all locals, to vociferously disagree with guides of any kind). Later I remembered, at lunch I had told him "Shopping, visiting museums, and eating at restaurants I've never tried, that's vacation for me, those are my priorities."

I was saying it in a lighthearted way (even though it's god's truth) but I was very touched that Erwin thought to find a museum for me. Usually the kind of person who springs out of the cab lightly and saunters off while you struggle with groceries, the wallet, and the bouquet of flowers, he did the kind of thing that I thought he was not capable of: he gave a damn and made an effort for someone else.
The moment that will live in infamy: I noticed the Cosmo Bedside Astrologer issue was out and Pizza Hut happened to have a copy on their coffee table in the waiting area. On the way out I took Erwin's arm- "look, the Beside Astrologer!" I reached for the magazine to show him and rammed my head directly into the glass door that was apparently directly between me and the coffee table. I immediately collapsed in laughter while Erwin wavered between sympathy and mortification. "I don't know you!" He groaned, trying to keep his distance from the spazz next to him who was cracking up faster than Humpty Dumpty. The only time I remember laughing harder at physical comedy was way back in the 9th grade, when a dear friend, Hannah, told me "My goddamn stupid sister broke her leg pogo sticking down the stairs. Again."

It was off to bed early, for a good night's sleep and an early start the next day.

Day 02:

The breakfast was one of the best meals I've ever had, the food was fresh and well prepared. I had a simple meal of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, with french toast, and it was just right. It kept me full until about 2PM, which is quite a feat for a breakfast. The hotel's restaurant, the HillTop, is just lovely. Scenic 360 degree views of the mountainous hillsides, same simple yet luxurious decor as the rest of the hotel, (real flowers on the table, helpful waiters, handmade local pottery for the accent dishes, and a piano were among the charming details) I was a bit surprised but happy when a young guy started plinking out piano lesson standards on the upright, while his proud parents took some souvenir photos. Usually I would be fuming with barely contained rage at this annoyance (hello! We're not in a music shop, jerky! Let us eat in peace) but I guess this place works on all kinds of cranks, me included.

After this, I toddled off to SM to upload my 75847 pictures and shop for pasalubong. I got a few teeshirts and a few books for later, then off to Ben Cab Museum. I'm really glad I didn't chose to go tomorrow, because it's not open Mondays and I would have missed one of the most sublime experiences of my life.

This place was...adjectives failed me. First of all, I was one of only 2 or 3 people there, which was a real treat. The place is nestled into the side of wide gorge, with a valley below and another mountain wall on the other side. This place is like the Poconos goes Tropical, it's a wild blend of everything you love about summer camp in Maine with a healthy dose of Carmen Miranda thrown in for good measure. Winding, steep streets give way to breathtaking views of hills crammed with tin shacks and the occasional Art Deco or Colonial masterpiece, the colors swimming into hyper vividness in the foggy mist that envelops the mountains. I wanted to grow a second set of eyeballs to take it all in as we drove there, just to see it all.

The museum itself is a wonderful blend of modern art and tribal pieces. I found the Philippines that I have been looking for, the "true" Philippines- local artists, tribal pieces (they were super cool and menacing, too). I took my time and about 5000 pictures ("Safety Last" the unofficial Philippines motto ruled here too and I could take my camera inside and take as many pictures as my little heart desired.)

The views from the back terrace of the place were defiant of description. Generally I'll take my daily serving of "Nature" from behind a thick sheet of plate glass, but the stunning natural beauty of this place was awe inspiring. I actually had a lump in my throat because it was so astoundingly beautiful.

I felt lucky to be alive. I couldn't believe the world could contain such riches, and still have more to go around, and on top of that, I couldn't believe I've seen so many of them in my travels. This view ignited a fire to travel in me, one that's been there all along, but seeing this, I thought "to HELL with 700$ studio apartments, horrible job interviews for jobs I don't even want, feeling like I never had enough, shopping at Target and jockeying for imaginary position with a bunch of fashion bitches over who has the hottest boyfriend and the coolest gay best friend back in the states. I'm not going back until I've had my fill of moments like this while I'm still in the position to be granted them." And you know what, maybe I'll never have to live that life again. Yes, this life has down sides, but the upsides are so high that it makes you never want to step off that star again and come down to the litter- strewn earth below.

Rarely in life do you have those moments when you realize "I'm living my dream." Even writing those words kind of chokes me up, but it's really true. I have to hang on to this moment, for those rainy days when I want a husband and a couple dogs to curl up with. Some people experience the meaning of the Universe when they look in their child's innocent eyes, some when they make their millions, some when they connect with others fixing a broken society, but for me, this was a defining moment- traveling and seeing this made me hungry in a deep, intense way that changes the way you think about things to travel more. "I must organize my life around this." I thought. "I can't grow old only having a handful of these times to remember. I must collect so many that my suitcase is bursting with them."

Sheets of undulating greenery broken only by pinpoints of colored flowers, thatched huts standing on stilts, graceful and inviting as orchids in a pot, mountains wreathed in mist in the far distance, cobblestone walks and a Japanese inspired reflecting pond in the near distance---this place was almost comically paradisaical. I am fortunate to have experienced it.

After eating an amazingly fresh all organic meal of carrot soup, fries, a ham, cucumber, and spinach sandwhich and a banana and ice cream thingie, rounded off with a cappuchino, I was ready to die happy.

Jigsaw Puzzle Reviews!

Jigsaw puzzle reviews!

One of the few things that I can do to pass the time here is a super nerdy pastime-- doing jigsaw puzzles. A few years ago I started to really get into it, when I was working at a Daycare Center. I found a few puzzles by a particular artist (my family had several of them), and I became totally obsessed with collecting puzzles by this artist (Bob Martin), and I collected several off Ebay. I also put them together in my spare time, becoming a "Bokker"- a person who greatly prefers Springbok puzzles over any other kind.

The deal is, there's two kind of puzzle-making "dies"- the metal tool that they roll over the cardboard to make the pieces. One type is "homogeneous"--all the pieces come out looking the same. YAWN! Now, Springbok does do this occasionally, and with today's puzzles, most are homogeneous.

However, with Springbok puzzles from the 1970's and 80's, the die is irregular, meaning the pieces come out uniquely. This is a huge boon for someone like myself, with very poor spatial relationship vision, ( I actually started doing puzzles to help strengthen my spatial relationship abilities), and I much prefer the art, the quality of the pieces themselves (made of heavy cardboard with a felt backer). Yes, I am a dork. I own it.

Anyhow, once I arrived here in the Philippines, I immediately sniffed out all the available thrift stores (my original boss had been here 2.5 years and was astonished that I had found two in her neighborhood when I was staying there. What can I say, it's a gift. I can locate a thrift store in the Amazon Basin with only a compas and a machete.) and I found a huge backroom stacked literally floor to ceiling with puzzles. It was a gold mine. I was like Indian Jones in the Temple of Doom. The first one I got was called "The Family Tree." (Fig 01). It's a 500 piece cartoon of cats (purchased to honor my new family members, Truman and Niffy) that I started and I talked Erwin into trying, and then he finished like the wind.

Fig 01: "The Family Tree"
A side note is that Erwin had to be talked into trying puzzles and by puzzle three was making videos of stop motion time lapse of the puzzle being put together. I created a monster! One of my favorite things to do is sit at the table and banter over a good puzzle. I have a tendency to introduce people to my private obsessions and make "converts" (Examples: Gossip Girl, the books of Jennifer Weiner, the Vampire Diaries, etc.)-- now if only I could use my powers for good and not trashy fun...

After "The Family Tree" was done, I ran back to the thrift store and picked up a MONSTER puzzle called "Penny Candy." Penny freakin' Candy was a headache in a box- the problem was two fold: we were probably missing about 100 pieces, and the colors were all alike- every piece looked like every other piece. "Penny Candy" beat us at our own game.

Fig 02: "Penny Candy"

After about 2 weeks and 3/4 into it, we gave up. The third puzzle was my favorite: "The puzzle of the Universe". This was one of the COOLEST puzzles I've ever put together. Missing only about 7 pieces, it is AMAZING. It's the best kind of puzzle- it has "markers" (sections you can put together easily and build out from) and tons of writing all over it, and it "tells a story"--it's pleasurable to see it come together. I wish I could do that puzzle all over again for the first time. It also came with a booklet about astronomy. That was from the "golden age" of Springbok- mid 70's to 8O's.

Fig 03: The Puzzle of the Universe

You can "like" them on facebook- facebook.com/springbokpuzzles.

After that, other puzzles kind of seemed blah. However, I took a chance on a bag of pieces that I recognized as Springbok that seemed interesting. It was like, tie dyed colors-- all kinds of colors. I bought a puzzle without a box or picture, people, that's how dedicated to Springbok ONLY I am.

So after "The puzzle of the Universe" was done, I started this new, box-less puzzle on a Saturday night, around 6 PM, and I finished it in about 5 hours, with four beers. I just turned on the radio to the dance station and worked it out. As soon as I put together the bottom part, I saw these perfect golden circles on a pale golden background, and I was like "what's all different colors and has circular bases?" Also, in a kind of Holmes-ian move, I also had a "feeling" for the type of photographic subjects and tone of the puzzles that Springbok makes, and I clicked on the image immediately: Ice cream cones in sugar cone bases. I was right. It was one of my favorite puzzle moments: after my correct guess, it all made sense- hyper close ups of peach, raspberry, mint, and vanilla ice cream really does look like tie dye. It was really fun putting that one together. It was called "Do yourself a Flavor".

Fig 04: Do yourself a flavor

It was complete! In an odd coincidence, I picked up a new puzzle a week later and inside it was the cover for the box for "Do yourself a Flavor" AND a bag of pieces for the same puzzle (not complete). So now we have backup pieces AND the cover (not that we need it, but it's nice to have).

So then came the dark days where there was no more Springbok to be had except puzzles that me and Erwin didn't want. We settled on "Roving Rascals" which remained unopened, it just didn't really catch either of our fancy. Erwin wanted a puzzle that "said something". I kind of know what he means- he wanted a more traditional puzzle, but a compromise usually lets down both parties, so Roving Rascals only pleased the cats, who slept on it for a week until we put it away.

Fig 06: Roving Rascals

Then I tried to bring home "Heirloom Quilts" which was also a flop. I'm not sure what it was, but it was just a snore. I never even really opened it. Just didn't feel it.

Fig 05: Heirloom Quilts
So I tried the store again recently, hoping that there would be new stocks, and there was one puzzle that caught my eye (not a Springbok, but close- Great American Puzzle Company), "Underwater Mardi Gras".
So now I'm in the middle of that one, which has the upside of having no repeat colors or patterns but has the TINIEST pieces on EARTH. They say it's "over 1000 pieces" but probably what they did was fold a 500 piece puzzle in half and then cut it that way because my GOD are these pieces small. And it ain't no Springbok.

Fig 07: Underwater Mardi Gras

Happy is the child who grows up remembering the feeling of running their hands through the box of pieces, over and over.

Is “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” the answer to international relations?

Is “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” the answer to international relations?

This story has two equally sugary- sweet parts:

Part one: When I was 19 or so, my mom was dating around after getting divorced, and was into going to night clubs to listen to live bands and other fun stuff she could never do while married to my computer programmer dad. So one Halloween night, she was bopping in and out of her room getting ready to go out for an evening of fun and I was sitting on the couch, happily absorbed in an ancient, well respected holiday tradition—watching “Rocky Horror Picture Show” on VH1.

This love began long ago. When I was in high school, the dressing rooms for our stage were under the stage itself, tiny wooden labyrinths that rocked with the sounds of two tapes on repeat: The soundtracks for Grease and Rocky Horror Picture show. Hours were spent arguing over who would “play” who (it was decided that I would be Janet, as I was the most “sweet and innocent” of the group. Hey, I was the youngest, this was ultra-decadent Catholic school, and this was the theater crowd, here!) and the girls’ dressing room rang with the sounds of girls singing the kooky lyrics to “I can make a man of you.” So I’ve had a special place in my heart for the campy cult classic ever since.

So as my mom came out to get my opinion on her latest outfit manifestation, she became entranced with the black hole of charisma that is Tim Curry in full on Franknfurter mode- like a glam rock Freddy Mercury with a touch more of…edge? Glamour? Sex Appeal? Freddy always seemed heartrendingly sincere, whereas Tim Curry is menacingly vampy and seductive. It’s hard to make a man dressed as an ironic 1930’s cabaret vamp seem attractive to women (and believe me, he is INSANELY attractive in this movie, probably for the same reasons that, some years later, bands like Poison would become attractive to women) but Curry does it. Writhing around on stage and stomping his 5 inch sparkling platform heels, Curry owns it.

“Who is that! I want to do my eye makeup JUST LIKE THAT!” She was riveted. I remember her watching at least half of the movie and really digging it! (15 years ago my mom was much more of a free spirit than she is now, Post- Hippie Ex. Her usual taste runs to Frank Capra movies, Jane Austen, and Victoria magazine). It’s one of my favorite memories because she was so cool about it, especially considering the drugged out, oddball, over- the- top dance numbers, prominently featuring the type of freaks you usually only see hanging half way off the back of someone’s truck during Mardi Gras parades.

Anyhoo, I made a tradition of watching it on Halloween until I got into my later 20’s and was too busy partying to watch movies on Halloween.

So this past Halloween I asked my roommate if we could rent Rocky Horror and he gave me a blank stare. I attempted to describe it and settled for a mash up of a few lines of the most famous songs, and a breathlessly positive review based on the above story. Then I sent him this from IMDB.

Well, my roommate and I were at the mall today and were looking for the trailer for another holiday classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life” (after giving him the plot summary from what I could remember---I’m famously bad at such things, he was strangely hung up on the “suicide” angle (“But WHY was he trying to kill himself? WHY!!??”) and I was trying to show him that the film wasn’t really about that), and he reminded me “Oh, how about Rocky something or other?”

Thanks to the magic of YouTube, he was plunged into the “Time Warp” (a song they play on the radio during Halloween as well, unless I’m out of my mind) which he took to like a fish to water! He was singing the intro lines (ostensibly so I “could hear too” since only he had headphones, but I think it’s really because it’s IMPOSSIBLE not to sing along) and kept asking “I want to see the guy with the lipstick! When does the guy come?” (He means Tim Curry).

Well, at the end of “Time Warp”, Tim Curry has a solo number “Sweet Transvestite Transsexual from Transylvania”, which is the number my mom caught that caused her to fall fathoms deep in love with Curry’s eye makeup. We cued that up on YouTube, and… Whelp, same effect on my roommate. Despite being firmly hetero, he was tickled pink and clearly had a bad case of Curry poisoning, gleefully diagnosing “Oh, he’s a gay who likes manly men!” as if he alone “really understood” Franknfurter the way no one else would. As Tim Curry purrs out his first lines, curling his heavily lipstick-ed mouth, in that deep plum pudding voice of his, my roommate was about to propose on bended knee “Nice voice!” He grinned. Keep in mind that my roommate doesn’t drink, smoke, swear, or even raise his voice- he’s very conservative and old fashioned, he sort of disapproves of two piece bathing suits, and he was SUPER into this movie. Ah, Rocky Horror. The magic stays alive.

We could have had it all.

As usual, our heroine rides in on the coattails of a major social movement, dazed from the crash and burn through the atmosphere on the way back from the moon.

I was killing time between mock calls for certifications the other day by reading salon.com news about OWS (for my local readers, it's a social protest movement, the largest and most significant of its kind since the Vietnam War Protest "Occupy Wall Street") regarding the overweening greed, malfeasance, and bad decision making of Big Business in the US.

The slogan that's come out of this is "We are the 99%", meaning basically, that the stolen and cribbed wealth of the "1%" at the top should be redistributed to the rest of "us." The articles there say really anything I have to say better and more coherently, but as an American living abroad, there's something more than a little melancholy for me seeing this. When I left the country, I felt that I was leaving a beloved relative to die of cancer, and now it's like watching the desperate members of the extended family gather round to cast a spell to reanimate the dead body.

Tragic and frightening, sad, and something to admire in its intensity at the same time. I've never been an activist, it's something that I admire in others, but I have a tendency to think things are going to go the way they're going to go no matter what, and a candle has to burn out all the way, a kind of "We didn't start the fire" mentality. When I think of the scope and depth of the planet, and of history, the protests seem both large and extremely small at the same time. I'm proud of my countrymen who are taking a stand, and I also have to smile: Welcome to the way virtually everyone else in the world lives.

I too feel ripped off. I too mortgaged my life with crushing school debt with the promise of a "good" job after I did what I was supposed to do and got good grades, played the game, and rolled the dice. Well, shit, they came up snake eyes, and I found myself working in collections, alongside ex cons, women who had been laid off after 20 years in the same industry and who had to start over at 9 dollars an hour, and desperate people who had nowhere else to go.

Aside from my beloved friends and family, there is nothing in the decayed, corrupt, played out US for me. I was robbed, along with hundreds of thousands of Americans who bought into the American dream, which slipped through our fingers somehow, while we were bent over our books studying the past, hoping for the sunlight to touch our shoulders, our faces, our necks, to gild us the way it had everyone else, and would forever, and ever, and ever, amen.

From afar, gazing backwards, now I see it all, playing out on the world's stage, a sad and dingy affair, the gathering of the tribal bands that will dominate the wasteland that once was the mightiest land on the planet.

Some of us will go to colonies, some of us will stay and accept the "fait accompli", some will sink into despair at the sight, some will gather around the standard and fight, never knowing if their efforts will come to anything, or will just be another toy war with wooden soldiers.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

I can see clearly now, the wallet is empty

When I was a kid, my parents, god bless 'em, deeded my sister and I with a series of gigantic, blush pink or tortoiseshell colored glasses that would have looked more at home on either Krystal from Dallas or a super hipster installation artists from Brooklyn. (Fig 01)
I really did not look this hot: Fig 01

There's photographic evidence, people. I mean, first of all, it was the 80's, and second of all, we broke glasses like it was our job, so if it were me I would have made my kids wear those basketball glasses that strap to your head with a rubber strap, so I guess we got off easy. Anyhoo, with the years, I've inherited their titanic miserliness when it comes to shelling out for eyewear. I often watched with envy tinged with scorn as my friends slapped down 700$ or more for glasses they inevitably sat on in a drunken scene at Nietzsche's (Buffalo dive bar) a week later. (Shout out!)

Thus we came to have the 150$ pair of "glasses" that came with an eye exam and a year's worth of contacts. The exam was performed by a beleaguered white guy in early middle age who looked stunned to find himself in a crumbling "mall" in the worst, most decayed section of Buffalo surrounded by Sean John glasses with anti theft tags obscuring most of the lenses.

I vividly remember trying to joke with him: "Does anyone really have lavender eyes?"

He gave it some thought. "No." He intoned with the seriousness of a judge handing down a verdict in court. Oof.

So after that was over I was allowed to choose a pair of "glasses" from the "poverty stricken" rack, which held a vibrant selection of huge 1970's aviator bifocals (which I probably should have went with, if I had the balls, but that look can only be carried off by the Amanda Beales of this world) horrifying flesh toned glasses that screamed "I am NOT a crook. I am a molester." and etc. I actually went to the "upgrade" rack and picked the least offensive glasses I could find, a pair of black wire rimmed slightly oval frames that my GIANT lenses threatened to break with their sheer thickness.

So I wore my contacts every day (which is what I took advantage of the special for anyway, since usually contacts alone are 150$), and I didn't think my glasses were that bad. Well, then I moved to the Philippines, where people think it's fun to shout out your every flaw at top volume in a crowd: "WHY ARE YOU SO FAT?!" "YOUR BRACES MAKE YOU LOOK LAME!" etc.

So one day my eyes were bothering me and I wore my glasses to work, expected SOME teasing, but not what I got, which was the kind of remarks people make after you've been in a disfiguring accident and no one knows what to say exactly. "Wow...your glasses are really....thick." they would whisper, shocked, like they were gazing on the dessicated body of a mummy, preserved for thousands of years by the harsh desert heat and dry sand. I can't lie, that hurt.

Well, anyway, when I went home to tell this to my supposedly sympathetic roommate, he concurred with all the jerks that stared at me, slack- jawed. "Well, when I first saw those glasses, I thought they made you look so old, and I wanted to say something, but I decided not to."

Gee, thanks.
Anyhow, I'm too cheap and stubborn to spend money on new glasses when I have PERFECTLY GOOD horrible glasses already, but fate intervened when I rolled over on them (I usually take them off and put them on the far corner of the bed when I sleep) and the bow snapped off at the hinge.

"My glasses broke!" I screamed to my roommate the next day.

"Good riddance." He drawled, sipping coffee.

Well, that's that.

The good news, is that while in the US, a decent pair of glasses that looks like you didn't get them from a cardboard box at the back of your local house of worship, costs about 500$ if you don't have insurance, over here it varies, you can spend that much, but you'll be rocking Dior or Chanel.

So I grabbed up Wills and went shopping. Most places had these "Euro Artiste" glasses everyone has now- slim rectangular lenses in black rectangular frames. I guess I feel like those are "run of the mill"---everyone has them. I had in mind something cool, something stylish, I did NOT want to settle.

So I tore out a picture of these cool, slightly over sized tortoiseshell frames, like 1950's librarian style (fig 02). I actually did find those frames (or very close) from Dior, and they were 11,000 peso, on sale for 30% off.

Dior Glasses: Fig 02

But I just couldn't do it. Visions of my sister and her infamous 5- glasses year (the year she broke five pairs in five equally dramatic scenes, one involving roller skating down a flight of stairs, the terminus of which was made of cement. Basement: 01. Glasses 00.) danced in front of my eyes.

So I shopped around and found a pair of Vera Wang on sale from 10,000 to 5,000, with about an extra 2k for the lenses. That I can live with.

When I put them on, they were a perfect fit for my face. They're a pale Venetian green tortoiseshell, slightly larger and more oval version of the rectangle architect glasses, with a little square gold initials button on the bow. They just really looked good- they didn't overwhelm my small features (I like to think of them as "dainty") or make me look like Ensign Geordie from STNG (NERDS UNITE!, those of youse who know what that is), so I said "sold". (Fig 03)
Fig 03: the Vera Wang glasses.

And now I have nice glasses. And they came in a mini bullet proof titanium glasses coffin that I plan on using, since they cost me the same amount that a civics lesson, a cultural tour of inner city Buffalo, a free heartbreak, a set of contacts, an eye exam, and a pair of "glasses" cost me five years ago.

Inflation. It's a bitch. A well dressed bitch. But a bitch, nonetheless.