Travel Madness

Very early on Thursday, at Ridiculous O'clock in the morning, I will be at the airport on a flight to my old Peace Corps home, the Dominican Republic. Last time I visited was four years ago. I met my dad in Miami, and we flew there together. It was a really fun trip! The only downside was that we were supposed to fly back on September 12, 2001. We were delayed for a few days.

Perhaps it's that experience of anxiety and fear, which tainted the end of the last trip, that is now making me a bit anxious about this one. I tried to get one of my friends to come along because it just felt like it would be more of a vacation that way. I doubt I will sit on a beach and drink margaritas alone. I certainly won't climb Pico Duarte (the tallest peak in the Caribbean) without a buddy, and I don't know any Dominicans who would want to come along for that. None of my friends were able make room for the trip in their schedules, so I'm going it alone this time.

I've only planned to stay for six days. This trip is mostly to visit my Peace Corps "family" and friends in my old village. Some of their relatives live in the capital city, and it would be culturally irresponsible to neglect visiting them while I'm in the country for the first time in four years... so I'll go to their houses, too. This means riding on a bus with live pigs and chickens. That's always a blast, actually. Cultural immersion at its best.

According to the weather service, it's supposed to rain the whole time I'm there. I figure that will be okay since it will save me sunscreen. And, as I said, the purpose of going is not to sit on the beach being fanned with a palm frond by a local.

Nah... I'll be yapping with the locals about the devaluation of the peso, the current state of coffee exports, and just how I managed to get so fat. This is the Dominican version of "You look great! Have you lost weight?" It doesn't matter if your weight has actually changed at all. People are required to call you fat as a compliment when they see you.

It's my kind of place.

Anyway, anxiety aside... I'm very happy to be going back. I lived there for over two years, from 1997-1999. All of my little ones are now grown ups. Perhaps, they even have little ones of their own. I just took some time to look at my photos of my Peace Corps service. It lessens my anxiety a bit. After all, I went by myself the first time... and back then, I didn't know the language, the culture, or anyone in my village. This time, I have family.

My American Family Meets My Dominican Family

Where Are My People?

A few days ago, my friend, Carrie, posted on her blog that she had purchased "Curvy" jeans at The Gap. They have a style called Curvy?! I knew right then that must have some. Finding jeans to fit my figure is always a challenge in the mainstream stores. I have issues finding pants that fit my round heinie and my smaller waist at the same time. They generally get all gappy in back where my rear sticks out further than it's allowed, and I end up showing my underpants to the world in a not-so-sexy fashion. I guess the perfect woman, who must be the target demographic in these stores, has no hips to speak of and a boney little butt. As if that weren't enough to wreak havoc on my closet, she also seems to have ridiculously long legs that defy the laws of physics.

The Gap is finally embracing my body type! It seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I was ready to jump on it! And, although, I generally don't shop there, I hopped in my bandwagon and drove on over to my nearest Gap store.

I tried on several pairs of Curvy style jeans in varying sizes. I was sorely disappointed, however, when they still gapped in back and hugged in all of the wrong places. So, it is official...

I am even too curvy for Curvy jeans.

Does anyone have any ideas on where a round-assed white girl can find a pair of jeans that actually fit?

Swiping the Sweetness

Not having any children of my own to gush about, I must tell a story about my friends' baby, Nutmeg, who loves me dearly.

Apparently, she has been picking up both the real phone and a piece of plastic, which she thinks is a phone, and demanding, "Call Bert!" Then, when my lovely friend humored her brilliant baby and handed her the phone, Nutmeg said, "Come." This was then followed later by "Climb." Evidently, Nutmeg is inviting me on a climbing date with her!

I'm so smitten with her. Go Cpu and Epu! Great job with the DNA!

False Advertising

I was working out at the gym the other morning when I saw something that always makes me cringe just a little bit. A man was in the bouldering area of the gym climbing around on some of the routes. He appeared to be just an average guy in his late 30s from afar, but something about his head was a little strange. It took me a minute to put my finger on the problem, but once I spotted it, the glaring truth was inescapable. He was wearing a toupee... and it didn't match the rest of his hair.

It's a terrible trap. A man in his early 30s begins to lose his luscious locks. Feeling this premature baldness does not personify the young stud he still feels he is inside, he researches the options. Perhaps, he chooses a toupee as the best cost-effective way to keep, what he feels is, his waning mojo. At the time when he purchases his Genuine Human Hair Accessory, everything looks smashing! His mane has been restored to its previous glory days, and his winsome allure will no longer be tainted by his shiny scalp blinding the onlookers.

However, after several years of enjoying his toupee, the man isn't aware that what is left of his real hair has gone rather salt-and-pepper gray. The rug no longer matches the moldings. The whole ensemble is off. To add to this, if the toupee is older than 8-10 years, it's likely shaped in a now-outdated style. For instance, the man at the gym had a very nice 1992 skateboarder, extra long in front, over-the-eye flip thing going on. This did not add to his false hair's appeal.

Let me say, however, that I'm not entirely opposed to a little false advertising here and there. I'm no stranger to getting a little boost in self-confidence from some well-known retail pals. Let's just say I'm on a first name basis with the staff at Victoria's Secret. However, I do insist that if you plan to advertise that you have hair, please... make sure it matches the rest of you. It's like me trying to get away with wearing Pamela Anderson's boobs. Incongruous.

Fragile

My mom called today to tell me that my uncle, who is in his late 60s, has a cancerous brain tumor the size of an egg in his frontal lobe. The frontal lobe is where most of a person's personality manifests itself. It's one of the most important parts of who a person is, and it's very dangerous to be digging around in there. All the same, they are doing surgery on Wednesday to remove as much of it as possible, without damaging my uncle more than they have to. Apparently, it's an insidious and evil type of cancer that's hard to stop.

He and my aunt are recently retired and were just beginning to enjoy their empty nest. Then, he started having some headaches, recently. One trip to the emergency room and... boom... brain tumor.

When something like this happens, I feel like I need to tell everyone how important they are to me. However, I remain rather paralyzed by my melancholy right now.

Life is so fragile.

Times a-Changin'

One of my best friends of all time was once a sworn enemy, whom I mentally attacked almost daily with a vengeance. I imagined her to be a manipulative, catty man-stealer. She was, in fact, the dreaded recent ex-girlfriend of my current boyfriend. Oh yes, the bane of my very existence. With her nubile body, literary smarts, and foreign travel experience, she was a nemesis of grand proportions. We both spent several years living in Madison, Wisconsin, but never once had a real conversation. I was 20 years old.

Now, 11 years later, having long ago dumped the above-mentioned boyfriend because he was rather self-involved anyway, I find myself thousands of miles from Wisconsin and once again living in the same city as my long ago foe. What is more amazing, is that this larger-than-life villain from my past is now one of the people with whom I spend most of my free time. We rock climb. We hang out in the evenings when her husband is at work. She was the one who came to get me in a far away city when my car died in the middle of the night. I was the one who threw her baby shower. One of her daughter's first words was "Brrrrrrt".

Change is good.

And now, she and her husband will be moving soon. They're headed back to their midwestern roots. And on days like today, I sit here and wonder what I will do with my time when they are gone. Cpu, Epu, and Nutmeg... I'm so grateful for the friendship we all share. I truly cherish it. I love you all so much. What will I do without you?

Enjoy your adventure.
Up. Up. Up. Go. Go. Go.

Note: After writing this post, I went to this friend's blog to catch up. I found this story written several days ago, in which my pal very specifically mentions me and our strange pathway to friendship.

Difficult Deck

I spend my days at work with really good kids who've been dealt a really crappy hand by life. The world just hasn't been very nice to these kids. They come from homes where their parents, the people who are supposed to love them unconditionally, are addicts, alcoholics, abusive, and/or in jail. For this reason, they fail in school, develop eating disorders, wet their beds well into adolescence, and generally have a tough time dealing with everyday tasks. Healthy people act out when their world is a mess. That's why I believe that juvenile delinquents, by a just a small stretch of my heartstrings, need the most love and support.

Some of the cases that are the saddest are the neglect cases. Parents who just don't care. At least abusive parents have some interaction with their children, albeit twisted and confused. Neglected kids have no one to tuck them in, no one to read to them, no one to come home at night and feed them dinner. They sit in their homes (if they still have a home), isolated and alone, not yet old enough to understand that this isn't the way it's supposed to be. They don't know that other children enjoy the presence, support, and love of adults in their lives. They only know that life is very lonely.

That's why my job is so rewarding. I get to be someone who cares. I show them that there's a different way to be in this world. I accept them as they are... with bulimia, failing grades, and deep emotional scars. Just by being there every week to play checkers and ask how they're feeling, I give them a clear message that their voices matter. Their feelings matter. They are worth my time and my care. And in fact, I even truly value the time I spend with them. They make me laugh just as often as they move me to tears.

And then, glowing from a day of connecting and reconnecting, I drive home to my neighborhood. On the way, I see the man with crutches and very few teeth, who is likely about 40 years old, but appears to be closer to 60, standing with his cardboard sign. Hungry. Anything helps. The letters are crooked and childlike. He is likely a drug addict. By the looks of his teeth and skin, probably methamphetamine. And, yes, he likely uses the money people give him to buy more drugs.

When I walk to the grocery store, I see the homeless woman on the corner, sitting on her soiled cushion from someone's discarded, old sofa. She's insulated from the San Francisco fog, bundled in several mismatched and stained layers of clothing, including a rather tattered, ancient-looking SF Giants winter hat. She reads her book in the twillight as passersby step over her plastic cup, which is peppered with small change.

And tonight, just like many nights before, I find myself thinking of the homeless in the city. I keep getting stuck on the fact that she can read. Sometimes, that fact alone makes me cry. To me, it so concretely says that someone loved her once. I picture her as a small child, sitting in school, enjoying the teacher's shining approval as she reads Green Eggs and Ham, and I wonder what went wrong. Did she suffer from incest? Abuse? What brought her to this desolate, lonely place?

I picture him in school, eager to learn, but unable. Perhaps he had a learning disability that no one ever caught. Maybe he had trouble seeing the blackboard, but his parents didn't notice because they were high. Whatever happened, his self-esteem plummeted. Perhaps he found respite in the drugs which take away his hurt.

And this is not to mention the people I see every day who are perfectly functional adults. Stable income, reliable vehicle, organized and on time. But something is amiss. Perhaps he won't ever have a fulfilling relationship because he doesn't know what it feels like to be loved. Maybe she won't ever aspire to a better job, of which she is fully capable, because she learned early on that she doesn't deserve to succeed.

All of this... all of it makes me wonder why we, as a society, don't embrace the task of helping parents to be better parents. This generation of parents knows only what they have learned from their own abusive, neglectful, incesting parents. Much like reading, parenting is a learned skill.

Part of my job is to work with the parents of the kids I see each day. I can show them how to set and accomplish parenting goals. Just like my neighborhood's homeless, they aren't bad people, either... just mistreated kids, grown up on the outside and hurting on the inside.

I love my job.

I Am So Freakin' Popular

My advice to you, is that whenever possible in a couples dance class situation, where one must rotate around the circle to learn with different partners, always make sure there are more people of the opposite sex than you. Each poor single man (or woman) is placed between the couples in the original pairing before anyone has rotated. Then, when everyone rotates one person down, each new partner has a little party because he or she has an actual person of the opposite sex to dance with during this go around... instead of just stepping around in space and waving his or her arms as if having some sort of seizure instead of learning to salsa dance (or swing or two-step or tango).

There were more than twice as many men than women tonight at my salsa class. I swear, it makes a girl feel like a real live rockstar.

Thank you. And goodnight.
Bert drops microphone and prances off stage

Nederlandse Klimmende Vriend

My buddy, Pascal, from Holland came to visit. We went climbing together in the gym. He is a crazy climbing machine.