Sitting in our nearly empty place we realized that our plane tickets are non-refundable and our itinerary does not involve a return to square one, here. Sadly it is too late to change our minds and too soon to give up. Bags packed, TV sold, mattress sold, plates and cups gone too. Seems there’s nothing left to pack that hasn’t already been sold, given away to friends, or donated to the local alley hobos.

Less then two weeks before we join the pack of fearless backpackers called to the world of Buddhist temples and pristine beaches, a place well known as Thailand. Seeing that Hubby and I have even picked our foreign Thai names so to fool the cab drivers that we’re no average farangs who inhabited and brutalized their beaches and complex culture. (Hubby is Svoriko and I’m Ningning.)

Many asked us if we’re excited, of course this is usually the question after they’ve regained composure, picked their jaw from the ground, once learning that we are moving to Thailand and not England, Paris, or Australia. The follow up question is what will we do there, and then to make some sort of comment along the lines of how they’d like to come and visit one day. While I can’t speak for Hubby, I can truly say that I thoroughly do not enjoy repeating myself in this manner. It’s equivalent to a certified declaration under penalty of perjury that you are duly obligated to commit to, or else be held a liar. While I’d like to have a concrete plan as to my future, I can only affirm that my ultimate intent and mission is to live my life to the fullest, be it in Thailand or the States, and with the support of friends and family.

Hubby wants a meaningful opportunity to view employment as optional rather than compulsory. As we’re both established in our careers, at least for another two weeks, we’re elated that this opportunity has arisen. As we forge ahead, just like the Jungle woman of 18 years, we will be retrained to appreciate Thailand and its elaborate presentation with deep history and friendly people. Sawadee kha!!!

Went out last night to grab a quiet drink and a non-franchised burger, only to encounter the Karaoke caravan from the land of the American Idol wannabes. When gf, Hubby, and I entered, we noticed the sparkling, scintillating lights overhead, the high volume on the big projector shooting eighties videos above the Karaoke machine, and the eclectic group that composed of people that were either over 40 or flamboyantly gay. Being relatively exhausted after a long and arduous day of lifting heavy boxes and cleaning, we were not deterred by a few eccentric characters.

After ordering drinks and food, we slowly realized the full magnitude of our decision to patronize this restaurant. As the music came to halt, we heard the MC announcing what was sadly inevitable, that Karaoke was about to begin and it was absolutely necessary that we search the binders for a song suitable for our turn at the Karaoke stage. We shook our heads and watched in disbelief as one person after the next walked the stage and expelled their rendition of Elton John, Alanis Morrisette, Stevie Nicks, and Jewel. The American Idol hopefuls had one common denominator, they were the size of what a person would look like had they consumed 3 hamburgers about 4 times a week for the last 10 years. That’s equivalent to a qualified candidate for gastric bypass surgery. Saying this though, I must give full credit to the fact that they could all sing brilliantly, despite the visual distraction.

Weight aside, some of them had true potential and all of them must have been religiously practicing at home for the last 5 years as no one can randomly or spontaneously sing that well. Hubby commented that this was the first Karaoke event he’s attended wherein the singers could actually sing. With talent like this, Hubby noted, they would have to pay him an exponential amount of money, or strong alcohol, to get him near that stage. When gf and I stopped laughing we agreed that some of the singers should be auditioning for American Idol.

Our food arrived and we were promptly informed by the MC’s assistant that we had to pick a song (a la Madonna, Ice Ice Baby, The Humpty Dance, or perhaps the Tequila song), and work the stage or else she might lose her job. I commented that hopefully she has a paying day job and gf added that she needs a good attorney. The assistant looked at us, offered to get us Tequila shots to soften the mood, and thankfully, wandered off to the next table.

More interesting and less outlandish, was the fact that a middle aged blind couple signed up individually for their round at the Karaoke stage, and was surprisingly on cue with the lyrics. It was astounding to see how accommodating the audience became and the reception was overwhelming, albeit pretentiously so. Almost.

It was an interesting, satisfactory evening. There was no pity drink from the bartender, no free drink from the eye stalker from the bar, and no calling Binlaw at 4 am to remind him that he needs to keep the purses at room temperature. While the food was boringly average, gf would disagree as she woke up the next morning to nausea and some unpleasantness. At least the beer was cold and the unexpected entertainment was priceless. Anyone touring through the USA should experience this egocentric bit of American culture, because it makes one truly appreciate the Karaoke in this nation.

Had time to talk to gf today while driving to the the city of great malls to buy gifts for Binlaw and immediate relatives. Apparently there’s some strange stuff going on outside of this nicely polished bubble we live in. A woman was found in the mystical jungles of Cambodia after she had been missing for 18 years. In all honesty, when you’re missing for that long, you’re no longer considered missing, rather you’re presumed dead and usually by some vicious, unimaginable manner that only fans of Japanese horror movies can comprehend.

While talking to gf about this bizarre bit of news, it occurred to me that this is not nearly as tragic or devastating as the inevitable “retraining” she will have to endure to be acclimatized to living in socialist Vietnam. At least in the jungle she led a simplistic, almost ideal life of utopia that only wild animals and uninterrupted nature can provide. She wakes up at whatever hour according to her whim, or usually when hunger becomes unbearable, and forage for food provided by nature, or in this instance, by human. She had no demanding, grueling work schedule, and did not have to tolerate the asinine higher authority called boss from mid-management, who takes two hour lunches and unabashedly request that you pick up his girlfriend’s laundry every Thursday. No social pressure to wear that custom tailored suit, to own that yuppie inspired, energy efficient automobile, to comply with her parents’ expectations of 2.5 kids, or to be saddled with a procrastinating spouse that’s allergic to consistent, gainful employment.

The woman probably didn’t have to fend off gossipy, vindictive women who claim to be her committed friends, but the moment she leaves the room, they ridicule her latest haircut blunder or her substandard, discounted shoes. This is assuming that her animal friends lack the requisite human quality that sets us apart, and that she had “friends” in that aspect. She probably did not have to worry about whether her boobs were of the appropriate proportion, that her boots had to match her bags, or whether her weight overshadows her qualification for the job.

Despite all the positive, irrefutable possibilities, particularly when deliberate isolation and solitude is such an unacceptable commodity in this day and age, there are some potent aspects of life that the woman has clearly been wrongfully denied. Conversing with gf made me realized that it was that exact sort of meaningful exchange that the woman will never completely comprehend or fully appreciate. Further, the higher powers created liquid alcohol for very sound reasons, so negating the intoxicating effect of alcohol for that many years is pure lunacy.

She is a displaced refugee in her own family. Despite their substantial love for her, they have a long, tumultuous road ahead in preparing her to enter society with any semblance of expected normalcy. Why force her to humanize when she has had 18 years of pure, unadulterated bliss? Because all good things come to an end sometime.

Seems the US Census Bureau recently released data that more American women are saying no to marriage. This prima facie statement ambiguously indicates that 51% of women are living without a spouse when, in actuality, it also factors in women that have lovers/boyfriends/partners into that figure as being single. Legally this would be correct, however, it misleads its readers to believe that more women are choosing to live alone - which is an unlike phenomenon in an age of co-habitation without matrimony and the distorted media perception of the ideal heterosexual marriage.

Hypothetically speaking, if more women are choosing to live in un-wedded bliss, they should be commended for making that decision without caving to the social stigma or indulging society’s expectations of what is acceptable and not. Why should they have to split their family’s property in half at the time of separation? Why should they pay for family support when the relationship has gone awry? Why should it be fair to split your hard earned money with someone that had probably been smooching off your crappy income for years and now they want spousal support while they subsist with their new gf/bf? Well, that’s why unmarried women should be commended for making such a sound financial decision of not entering into the institution of marriage.

Lets be clear that married people are proffered certain tax breaks (a form of encouragement from the federal government to procreate homogeneously), reduced costs for medical services, and less ostracized stares at social gatherings.

Despite the benefits of marriages, it is further proof that you have membership in an antiquated, stagnant organization that serves to remind you that you are either socially inadequate or physically undesirable because you are not a card carrying member. That’s the sourly crap that is subconsciously infused into our daily dosage of TV watching and pop culture. Not disregarding the biological practicality of procreation, but do we really need another waifish celebrity wannabe?

Lets praise the women that took deliberate action to strike a balance between their financial independence and dogma of marriage. Next year, hopefully, more women will choose to divorce from the pressure to marry, marry, marry.

The last bit of history is littered around the living room and kitchen for the last minute stragglers, bargain basement vultures to come this weekend for the imminent House Sale. In all honesty, the sign should say Life For Sale, because every little spoon and fork has remnants of the unforgiving, and indefensible past. Pinky’s past.

Normally, I could easily discard the raunchy glittering Christmas cards, ridiculous cartoon Birthday cards, and cheap recycled red wine, but I cannot dispense with the unapologetic pink pig adorned in an Alcatraz uniform with the swinging baton. That history is irreplaceable. Almost criminal to dispose of with the rest of the $1 items floating around on the kitchen counter. Even the thought of liquidating it is seemingly sacrilegious.

Another artifact I discovered underneath all the files was the souvenirs purchased on our last trip to Thailand. Evidently we thought cheap coin bags would be ideal souvenirs, but miraculously, customs didn’t catch on at the airport. How many people would appreciate a coin bag shaped like little scintillating elephants? Apparently we thought many people would find it equally valuable.

House sale starts at 8 am, but nothing in it belongs to a house. Together it does equate to a home, however, in pieces it’s nothing more than useless abandoned junk on the sidewalk for people to rummage through. On a positive note, if it does survive the trash bin, it might become a part of someone else’s history. Pinky lives on!! (Well, for another three weeks anyway.)

Early this week the decision was made that New York City was the ideal place to celebrate my birthday, along with Binlaw’s and gf’s birthdays. It seems fundamentally unfair that anyone would have to share a birthday, especially considering there are 300 million people in the US alone. Statistically, it would be impossible NOT to share a birthday with somebody, however, not impossible to share it with someone you know. In my instance, I know at least four people who share the same birthday month, fortunately only two of them are keen on celebrating it with me. Much to my chagrin, the other two had to check their calendar…

Having to share a special occasion, such as a birthday, may diminish some of the sacredness inherent in the day itself. What to do? Categorically ignore them and narcissistically promote the day as yours? Invite them to YOUR birthday party and using a highly amplified microphone, announce that it’s your birthday and insist that they sing to you alone. Tell them the party is at a different location than where it’s actually at, just to deter them from ever making it to your party. If they should inquire later, tell them it was a ’surprise’ birthday party.

Alternatively, go to New York City with the other two birthday people and have a drunken blast! Just make sure you make them wear T-shirts that saids, Happy Birthday to Pinky!

Once in a while, I dare to detour to the surreal utopian world of celebrities, wherein I inject my superfluous opinions on what Google assessed as the Most Popular subject on the internet that day. Presently, it is about the Beckhams moving to the silicone addicted, reality challenged world of Hollywood, and the current heated debate is whether the omnipresent and Scientology advocate, Tom Cruise, had any role in making that happen. To be honest, does it really matter that they are relocating to Hollywood because of Cruise’s influence, or that personally, the Beckhams wanted desperately to be immersed with similarly I.Q. challenged compadres who can relate to what it’s like to be publicly adored and intimately shallow in life?

The poignant relevancy is that the most superficially acceptable, media approved couple, is moving to the continent of the USA where assets like that alone would make them millions in publicity. Welcome to Hollywood, where no talent or brain is required. (Got Paris Hilton?)

Ladies, we are talking about the ubiquitously perfect male, David Beckham. While I vehemently despise any type of perfection, be it metaphysical or physical, which is an extremely rare and absolutely unattainable commodity on my budget, I must acknowledge that it is David Beckham, the small god of all men! In recognition of my fame obsession problem, David Beckham is arguably the closest thing to perfection. THE golden Beckham that always has a boyish smile on his flawless face, ex-captain of the salvaged English football team, and long term spouse of the equally impeccable Victoria Beckham, ex-Spice girl that generated catchphrases such as girl power.

The general obsession with celebrities and their dating antics has gotten to a shamefully astounding level in the USA. Celebrities get more press coverage on their disastrous relationship decisions than the fact that George W. Bush just committed more troops to the Iraq war, or that Saddam Hussein was hanged in a fashion that ironically, turned him into a martyr instead of the merciless, cruel dictator that he truly was. With all the devastating events emerging from all parts of the world, Google informs us that the Beckhams story is more popular based on the number of hits and headlines than the tragic Indonesian jetliner crash that killed over 100 people.

People might think that this rings close to a psychotic rant from a registered left-winged democrat, but on the contrary, this is an observation of the stark reality created by an abundant coverage of celebrities in their gloriously shiny dresses and meticulously styled hair. A popular USA news program called 20/20 recently did an expose titled “Are we addicted to fame?” wherein an astonishingly amount of middle schoolers heavily indicated on a survey that they’d rather be a celebrity assistant than a President of Harvard or Yale; the CEO of a big company like General Motors; a U.S. Senator; or a Navy SEAL. According to the report, most believe that fame would resolve all their problems, and even though being famous was not an option on the survey, being close to a celebrity was just as desirable. In fact, when asked if they could push a button to be smarter, stronger, beautiful, or famous, it was nearly shocking to discover that most students picked fame over intelligence and looks. What does that say about the future populace of America?

One can only hope that they are the silent, apathetic part of America, otherwise what we have to look forward to is Arnold Schwarzengger and Warren Beatty as President and Vice President, respectively. In order to curb this obsession with celebrities, our personal mission is to advance a proper mechanism of cold indifference and solidify disregard for movie stars.

If David Beckham is the media’s next convoluted inspiration for impeccable muscles and golden looks, then we should applaud the fact that he’s transitioning to Hollywood, because he will be in good company with the likes of Brad Pitt and George Clooney. These actors spend hours with their stylist and make-up artist just so they can look “natural.” While we can certainly appreciate the celebrities’ physiological perfection which only substantial money can buy, we must indiscriminately exclude them from becoming a part of our subsistence living. The general populace shop at their local discounted department stores and is a size 10, not two as the skinny talking heads will tell you on their daily entertainment show..

Do not buy the hype! Reality is not based on what you see in glossy magazines and on the big screen. Turn off the TV and cancel your subscription!

I have been trying, albeit on a somewhat inconsistent basis, to find a way to disengage from my parents, and have frustratingly concluded that it’s like removing the white from the rice that Asians are partial to. It is hard enough to handle your own baggage, dealing with your intellectually challenged asinine boss, failed relationships and unremarkable experiences, then to have to deal with the residual dysfunctional issues from your organic producers.

While some people cleverly develop a natural inclination to detour from any familial ties, I find it quite arduous to sustain any egregiously negative emotions toward my mother. While I can disengage from certain friends, and even Hubby at times, I simply cannot flip off the emotional switch when it comes to mother. Perhaps it’s the nature of mothers that makes it inconceivable to just not give a toss.

Mothers are hard to comprehend and neglect because regardless of the countless incidents of inexplicable failures and social disasters in your life, they are always there. Few siblings, not to mention friends, will stick around after the first few puke sessions, let alone a life time of it. Mothers always seem to worry about your daily nutritional intake, your conspicuous cough or sneeze, and your struggling career, something that most people barely feign interest in. Despite the misguided ineptness you feel because you dishearteningly think you never seem to measure up to their notion of the ideal son or daughter, you never truly feel like an outsider or disregarded in their life in the same fashion that friends or spouses may make you feel.

Perhaps my perspective on mothers is predisposed because I only have one parent, and ostensively abandoning her while I gallivant off to Thailand has put me in an emotional pickle. Confounded by sporadic episodes of guilt and depression, I have resorted to writing down all the things I would like to say to mother prior to departure. I’ve taken some proactive measures by scribbling on my invisible notepad all the things I want to coherently articulate, meanwhile mentally preparing myself for the likelihood of a psychotic breakdown accompanying her reaction. In anticipation of said breakdown, I’ve prepared three strategic responses to her apprehensive reaction.

Tell her the trip may be relatively short, and with the inevitable failure of my mission to acclimatize to living abroad, that she will probably see me within three months begging for unrecompensed room and board.

Tell her that I will have a particularly astonishing ocean view apartment in Thailand where she is welcome to come and stay for as long as she wants.

Tell her that Hubby plans to financially support me while I laze around in the lap of extended vacations and life of luxury and decadence, a life which she would be proud of.

While I’m cautiously optimistic of the measurable truth in each scenario, I must be prepared for the consequential worst case scenario, wherein she spews a self-righteous tirade about how thoughtless I am for barbarically abandoning her in my pursuit of a surreal utopia. I hope that’s not the case. Mothers do not practice cruel kindness, right?

Even if she does thrust forward a tirade of guilt-ridden judgments about my mystifying decision to gallivant to Thailand, it’s disingenuous to deplore mother just because of the powerful, omnipotent love which involuntarily forces her to behave in this deranged, mentally unstable manner.

I watched with apprehension and disbelieve as the dimwitted woman signaled to her drunken male friend to help her move the precious green sofa that she had just purchased from me. The disoriented man was heavily inebriated, and judging from the smell exuding from his breathe, he’d been in that drunken state for a few hours. Poor Hubby was the accidental victim of said stupor as drunk skunk kept shoving the heavy sectional toward him and pinning him against the wall.

On top of that, drunk skunk’s “assistant” further worsened my misery and pain as I helplessly stood by and watched them emasculate my furniture. Assistant proceeded to use her muddy shoes to carelessly stomp on a section of the sofa in her attempt to force it through the narrow hallway of my home. I presumed it never occurred to drunk’s assistant to maneuver the sectional and not force the thing to bend, but then again, judging by the company she keeps it’s easy to understand her misguided logic.

After helplessly watching for what seemed like hours, I finally gave up and retreated to my empty bedroom. Seems even the picture frame I have of my family is gone. While sitting on the floor of my dark and hallow room, I envision the drunk skunk and his assistant tearing off the edges of the sofa and ripping into the cushions while they attempt to negotiate it into their abode. Why did she ask her inebriated friend and his equally disabled assistant to help her? Rhetorical question as she’s in good company.

There’s only two explanations for this perplexing behavior. They’re either not very good friends, which logically flows from the way they mistreated her new sofa, or they were preemptive about the three day weekend ahead. Either way, the utter lack of respect and conscientiousness shown to her new furniture appalled me on a fundamental level. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist, nuclear physicist, immigration attorney, or brain surgeon to know that things do not last if you mistreat it. Additionally, if you’re unfortunate enough to be volunteered into moving someone’s furniture, at least have the courtesy of removing your shoes before you stomp on their belongings, particularly when the astonished owner is glaring at you with jaw dropped!!

As I listened to them descend the stairs, I had another thought. Perhaps I can refund them their money, eject them from the house, and have the sofa shipped to the in laws. They seem to have plenty of storage space and eventually I’d make my way there to reclaim it along with my designer bags. Hmmmm… the only remaining issue is how to get Binlaw to agree to pay for the shipping cost.

Sold leather sofa today and was quite disillusioned about the prospect of the human condition where emotions are attached to inanimate objects. Seems like every item in my surroundings is for sale. The distasteful and loud blue bamboo pot that holds the symbolic good luck charm given to me when I started my first business sits among other dusty, priceless items that are reduced to sell quickly. Too quickly for me to place a true and meaningful value on what it’s worth to me.

Items purchased after countless, exhausting shopping hours now reduced to bargain basement merchandise slated to put any department store out of business. It brings me little comfort knowing that my priceless treasures will transition from my impeccable care to that of a cold and indifferent stranger. How can one negate personal resentment and bitterness when one’s personal history is for sale?

Sold today is the bedroom set, the first one I owned outright and of the measurable quality that a student budget could afford while scrapping by on student loans and cheap ramon noodle. It has sentimental value and meaningful discussion only to those who had to survive on 1 and a half meal a day just so there would be enough money for one evening out on the weekend. Food or going out? Think cheap Vodka. Gone now are the days where you can point to the bedroom set and tell your fellow constituents that this was your accomplishment after years of starvation and haphazard nights on nasty, anonymous sofas. That this was what all the pain and suffering was about. Unfortunately, this history was sold today.

Days of shopping for that perfect piece of green furniture disappeared in a few short hours after some disheveled bloke came along and offered a fraction of what the thing holds in history, experience, and love. Hours of arguing with Hubby about the subtle shades of green in the cushion, the precise configuration of the sofa, and the obnoxious price, only to be reduced to a few Ben Franklins in the pocket. On his way out, the disoriented bloke casually mentioned that this fluffy feather downed green furniture, which was purchased with the utmost consideration and meticulous thought process, will probably be his dog’s bed.

Gone are the things that Hubby hoarded over the years, including the countless “practical and useful” computer books and 50,000 plus computer cables and hardware. Gone is the crappy, dysfunctional phone that disconnects indiscriminately and forces you to communicate in a pitch higher than a natural person should ever be legally allowed. Gone are the mismatched knives that had no paired forks, spoons with no siblings, and chop sticks with no twins.

Gone are the things that represent years of history. Things that hold a little history of who you are based on where you’ve traveled, what you’ve accomplished, and the experiences which makes you an interesting person.

As I look around and assess the ubiquitous emptiness, I heard a faint but distinct sound in the background. A door closing.

So we took the ultimate step today and booked our one way tickets bound for Bangkok. While I am nervous about the fact that the only seats available for two happens to be miles apart from each other, I’m ten times more anxious about the commitment and finality of what the tickets represent. As the airline indicated on their website, there’s no refund.

I can’t recall the last time I booked a one way ticket. Mostly because it’s always much more expensive than a round trip ticket, but usually I don’t mind since it means I have some degree of certainty that at the end of it all, I’ll be back at square one. This move to Bangkok, while imminent and inevitable, appears somewhat frighteningly drastic. Mixed feelings brewing within Pinky’s brain and aside from marriage, I hate commitments. However, I embrace change and particularly the quasi vacationing kind, but the kind that puts you in limbo until you arrive at the airport and at the mercy of your family and her in laws (we know how I feel about in laws), makes me want to hyperventilate and jab my eyes out as it keeps rolling upward. I can’t stop sighing!!! Melancholy and languishing about the thought of leaving behind people and places associated with my personal history, I’m forging ahead with Plan A as one would at any crossroad. Nonetheless, I can’t help but question what’s in my head..

Is it really worth giving everything up (i.e. business, friends, family) for an opportunity to venture across the Pacific ocean to be immersed in a foreign land where one speaks not a word of the language? Is it worth giving up the creature comfort of familiarity one finds at Krispy Kreme donuts, small beef burgers the size of a coin pancake at 58 Degrees, and shopping at discounted Macys, to evidently discover culture and small treasures in an exotic land? I sigh again. Life is full of laughable surprises, shocking discoveries and memorable moments.

If all else fails, lets see how long the in laws will put up with my crazy antics as I check out of exotic cultural mystique and back into civilization.

I went out this weekend to a local bar with Hubby and gf. While I was seated with my gf, some guy came along and bought me a drink. Coincidentally, Hubby was at the bar at the time trying to get us drinks. Hmmmmm…. do I drink the complimentary drink or return it to the dodgy guy who had been eye-balling me all night? You can’t miss the rings on my finger, especially the highly sparkly one that took me months to convince Hubby to buy me.

A few months earlier, I was at a different bar/restaurant with the same gf when some anti-pinkite guy bought her a cocktail but neglected to purchase one for me. Granted I’m legal bound to Hubby but he certainly wasn’t there to object and there was no way anti-pinkite knew that from three tables away! When friendly male waiter realized that anti-pinkite guy had only bought one drink for gf and not me - he got me a drink on the house. What’s more pathetic than being ignored at a bar is when the waiter comps you a drink out of pity! I suppose a free drink is better than no drink so I thanked the waiter and gulped down my beer.

Back to this weekend, g/f said I shouldn’t drink the beer since I didn’t know with any degree of certainty that dodgy guy didn’t douse it with some hallucinogen. I agreed that it was a bad idea to drink the beer so I pushed it toward Hubby and said the drink was complimentary from the dodgy guy at the bar. He drank it and gave dodgy bar guy an evil look.

Men rarely get complimentary drinks, at least not the men that I know. It’s possible that it just doesn’t happen often, or maybe the men that I know are not that attractive. Perhaps it’s because most bartenders are men, and it’s not likely that a man would comp another man a drink, unless he wants his phone number, or alternatively, he’s the man’s friend. In any event, I enjoy the double standard, it evens the inequality that women faced historically relative to entry to bars and restaurants. Not to mention the oppression and sexual harassment in the work place.

Later at another bar, while gf and I were lagging behind Hubby, a Blondie female approached Hubby at the bar. Apparently, it was time for him to buy someone a drink, but before I realized what was happening, gf grabbed Hubby and told blondie that he was with us. Hubby was disoriented and did not know what was happening. I saw what happened and thought it was the cutest scene ever. Mostly because it happened so fast Hubby didn’t even get a chance to respond to her.

Is it me or is there little restraints now when it comes to approaching happily married people. I always thought that emotionally unavailable people were legally and socially unavailable. Unapproachable for obvious reasons because you either get knocked over the head by the pissed off/disrespected spouse or setting yourself up for humiliating rejection. What’s most improper is that it disrespects the other spouse and more so if he/she is at the same table or room. On the hand, it takes lots of courage to do something like that. Others might argue that it’s simply idiotic as you never know if the lurking spouse has been twice convicted of attempted murder and is off his meds. You’re taking a tremendous risk with permanent physical disability.

If I can institute a law it would be to allow everyone to marry because as I see it, everyone should be able to join the institution of emotional dependency, financial deprivation, and inevitable decline of personal sanity.

I get so aggravated by some of the minute, redundant things in my life. So much so that I’d rather be jabbed with a needle ten times over than to have to experience the excruciating pain of reliving it all over again. For instance, I find slow moving traffic to be painfully aggravating because there’s no legitimate reason to slow down to gawk at potbellied guy walking on the side of the highway carrying a red gas container. Is that a gratifying reason to slow to 5 miles an hour and suspend my life for the next hour as I navigate through the deplorable rubber-neckers??? Argh!!!!!

Sometimes I am viscerally happy with the smallest things in life. This week I watched as this humongous aircraft lifted off until it became as big as the ant that was about to be squashed under the weight of my shoe. The sight of that aircraft ascending into the high, fluffy white clouds brought tears to my eyes. I was overflowing with inexplicable joy and positive emotions when the plane disappeared into the embraces of the clouds. I grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the tear in my eye and shook my head. Under my breath, when Hubby was a distance away, I said… thank god they’re gone….

Birthdays suck. It’s a constant reminder that life is moving along and that time is not your friend. Neither is gravity. Who are your friends when it comes to birthdays? Do people who send you a card once a year and see you every other year considered your friends even though they know the name of your dog, spouse, mother, and father? Finally, do you consider family members your friends?

Firstly, family members are in a different category, particularly in laws. They are sort of quasi-friends and quasi-family, but lets be honest, most of us truly think they are synonymous with outlaws. They aren’t really family, hence “in law,” as in family only by a legal technicality. Anything by legal technicality means that it’s by default and is barely acceptable except for some brilliant genealogist who decided that by marriage everyone should be related. Go figure. Bad enough you have legal and social commitments to one person, by marriage you are obligated to the whole clan! Don’t forget the clan’s kids and their in laws as they are legally family as well. If you’re fortunate enough to have in laws that are similar to you in age, background, interests, and taste in alcohol, you’re on your way to being quasi-friends.

People who know you at the office are what I consider acquaintances, merely because they may know “of you” as in your coffee habit, your work dalliances, and your incessant need for the brown spot on your nose, but they do not know how you retaliate after work. That’s what makes you the uniquely interesting person that you constantly strive to be. That’s what makes you brilliantly different from the passive aggressive assholes that surrounds you every day. Additionally, do your work mates really know what your favorite beverage is? Do they know how many anonymous partners you’ve been with in the last 6 months? Do they know that when you come home from work you fantasize about bringing an AK 47 to work the next day and blowing them all away? Do they know that you drink to keep them at bay? Do they know that after you puke your head out, you curl up into the fetal position with your pinchy rabbit and suck your thumb until sleep inundates you? Unless they know a little bit about your provocative, vulgar inner you, they are not your friends.

Finally, what about people that send you postcards once or twice a year but you can barely remember their faces? Do they count as friends? (Insert eye rolling, heavy sigh here) Lets be brutally, insensitively honest, these people are anal retentive and they have installed your information into their calendar because of one of the three following reasons. First, they’ve reached a pinnacle in their life, meaning they have faced some sort of life/death moment and are reaching out so that when their time come, they will have people at their funeral. Secondly, they have created an interest in you where there’s a false, or true, belief that you might be of value to them down the line. We’ve all seen Hotel Rwanda so we know what brownie points are all about. Alternatively, they truly value your friendship and want to stay in touch. Thirdly, they are curious, nosy sons of bitches that are only interested in hearing about your pitfalls and eventual demise. By staying in touch with you they are on top of the inevitable downward spiral that they hope your superficially glorious life will take. (Nodding) Yes, I think we all have “friends” like this. Some of them fall under the family category too.

So if it’s your birthday, go celebrate by yourself and hope that everyone forgets. Who wants to be reminded that you’re a year older and one step closer to collecting social security, or that you need to stop procrastinating and pick your head stone already. On the other hand, if you have true friends they’d take you out and not mention the “B” word and buy you just enough drinks until you think you are the hottest thing at the bar. At least when they hold your head over the porcelain God you know that you are with true friends, not some asshole who reminds you five days a week that you need to find another job.

Happy Birthday!!!

I can’t believe I have to pack my personal history, 33 years of it, into two lousy semi-efficient suitcases to be traversed at the international terminal. How do you distinguish between what’s worth keeping and tossing out to the hobos loitering in the alley nearby? How do you ascribe a value to sentimental items that are absolutely worthless on ebay and may only trigger minor interests to the people associated with them? Furthermore, I can’t indiscriminately toss out items without some meaningful, categorical process of what’s important and what’s not. That would negate MY personal history. Without my personal belongings or possessions, I’d be like a house without a roof, or a car without snow tires.

There are a few things I’m relatively indecisive about. Designer bags. They are a must keep, but which ones and how/where to keep them. Thank goodness Binlaw has a useful purpose. Little did Binlaw know that his entire unspoken mission, albeit misguided, was to lug all my designer bags to his house to store. Even though his house is across a continent and an ocean away, I’d rather it collect dust there than in some damp, dark, and highly questionable storage unit. Despite the fact that it’ll be over ten hours to get to his house from here, and that’s on a 747 aircraft going at an average of 600 miles an hour, at least I know it’ll be in a relatively safe, and more importantly, room temperature environment. Getting Binlaw to agree was no small task as I had to carefully illustrate that it was imperative to take the bags, to maintain its form during transport and condition once it reaches its destination. (Yes, it does require special care upon arrival, particularly since it’ll be a while before I can appreciate its splendor again.) After an initial obligatory refusal, many wonderfully persuasive arguments presented by yours truly, and a plethora of strong beverages, Binlaw agreed to transport them.

Another item I’ve been contemplating is my book collection. I love my misguided selection of fiction novels, and in moments of clarity, fiction books. While I am partial to certain authors, I’m particularly stalker-esque when it comes to substantively clever novels. If I can condense them into mini-books, I’d take every single hard-cover, soft-cover, no-cover book with me to Thailand and store them to eternity, or at least until I’m too blind to see that they’re no longer with me. Either way, books are an extension of my parallel universe because no matter what you’ve done or what you’ve conceived, someone has written about it more cleverly and eloquently then you have ever thought possible. Whatever you’ve experienced or procrastinated about, dreamt of but yet to execute, mulled over in uncertainty and perplexity, it’s all been written about in some book, and in a more coherent and succinct fashion. Thus, books are as vital to man as water is to fish and designer bags are to some women.

What I don’t have a problem with are things that I should have tossed out five years ago. I have clothes that I’ve kept that are either too large, as I deluded myself into believing that I could shrink it when I purchased it, or too small as they’ve shrunk too much. Some are so outdated that it’s quite possible there was a shopping expedition while someone was horrendously inebriated. All those things will be donated to the local alley congregating hobos.

More personal to me are things that I’ve kept with me for the last 20 years and I can’t jeopardize desecrating during my nativity stage in Thailand. One certainly can’t traverse Asia with one’s ceramic piggy bank, the one that takes the form of a pink pig wearing an Alcatraz outfit complete with black stripes and hat. Nor can one hoist a three volume photo album, with photos ranging from the high hair day to more sensible iron straight hair, while trudging through the ruins of Angkor Wat. At the end of the day, I certainly can’t remember these things, as without them I might not remember the little stories, events, people, and moments that made up my life. They hold a piece of history that can never be recaptured, unless, of course, one’s a courageously intelligent, detail oriented, colorful writer, whose words can transcend the stories of one’s life into their own Mona Lisa.

I know that when the time comes for me to pack my belongings into my two treacherous suitcases, I will have to make some arduous decisions. Lets hope Hubby’s suitcase will be sufficiently large enough for the albums. I will need it to remind me of all I’m leaving behind.

There’s plenty to wish for in the new year, but none any different from those we wished for last year or years before, except maybe a few more pounds off than last. Either way, it seems almost pointless to really make resolutions, particularly those we have no meaningful way of sustaining. So why do people do it?

Perhaps people like to have something to aspire to, and afford an opportunity to start over, be it realistic or not. It’s a mental state of reincarnation wherein one is allowed to reinvent what one have already attempted before, albeit without fruition. Not to demoralize or dismiss such futile behavior, providing hope where there might be none is nothing to poke fun at. It does provide people renewed incentive to start over and try yet again. Persistence and determination are key and essential in a well-rounded individual. However, like a child that has behaved badly, the punishment must end at some point for the child to behave badly again. The cycle needs to replicate in order to maintain the chaotic sanity of existence.

Some prefer to disregard and pooh pooh the notion of resolutions, preferring to treat it as another day in the 365 day cycle. This I can truly relate to. Why make resolutions you have no meaningful way of maintaining and no mechanism of sanctions if you should cheat? This seems like a formula designed to fail. No sanctions, no meaningful inclination to succeed, and no gatekeeper to dole out the pain and torture if you thwart the rules. Policing yourself has never been an effective mean of ensuring compliance and deterrence.

I have a friend in particular who likes to list all the things that friend would like to do differently in the new year. Last year it involved losing weight, making more money, and to be more positive. As idealistic as this may be, friend tend to follow true until mid February, when the flurry of making resolutions has died a cold, shivering death and all that’s left is torrential rain and expensive tight jeans. Friend resort to joining a gym and to forking out first month, last month, and initial processing fee so to lose the extra weight. Six months later and almost $600 poorer, friend has gone to the gym once, has resigned to just being happy with friend’s new weight and to buying new more luxurious jeans. Not to point a judgmental finger, but I could have predicted that in January.

The point is this, make resolutions daily. Make it realistic and manageable. I’d like to be super thin and super positive, but at the moment, I’d settle for deleting “super” from my vocabulary.