THANK YOU VERY MUCH, MISS LIPPY!

A woman at yoga the other week inquired about the level Lindsay and I teach. When we replied kindergarten, laughter betrayed her attempt at taciturnity and she muttered that she made it a week in her own TEFL experience with the little mongrels. Her expression changed from amusement to sheer sympathy as she nudges me on the shoulder and says, “it takes a strong woman to teach kindergarten.”

The whole way home I thought about my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Humprey and I smiled. An expansive woman in her mid-thirties with chaotic curls and smile that could’ve singlehandedly caused global warming. In addition to providing my first course in the upcoming world of education, which would undoubtedly consume my life for the next 17 years, Ms. Humphrey moonlighted as my babysitter on occasion when my parents needed a hiatus from the incessant chatter about undeniably awesome 4-year-old things. I’d like to think Ms. H voluntarily took an extra interest in me because she recognized my specialness from a young age, but I think she may have run a (semi-illegitimate) daycare in her spare time.

I guess my point is that our kindergarten teachers make an impact on the course of our lives, however minute. They are the first adults bestowed the privilege to mold the tiny impressionable minds of the never before schooled future of the human race. Sure, it doesn’t take a heap of brain power to instruct someone to color the pig pink, but it takes some compassion, patience and love to do so while one monkey is hanging from the rafters, tiny thieves are pilfering my purse, curious Kip’s got two crayons shoved into his nasal cavities and the nudist has stripped down completely to use the restroom. 

Patience has never been my forte and so I was forced to use a different weapon from the arsenal. I combined my affinity for humor and entertainment with semi-educational instruction to form a superpod of knowledge and amusement in T. Arex’s classroom. After a morning of teaching the thizz face, the dougie and various other novelty dance moves accompanied by the tune “Call Me Maybe,” I was feeling a bit under the weather (perhaps associated with the unidentifiable grey meat for lunch). My patience level hit an all-time low and I skirted the border between teacher and tyrant. After the kids began chanting “TEACHA ANGRY,” attempting to display their knowledge of the emotions I taught them last month, I cracked and my anger dissolved into embarrassment.

These foul-smelling booger pickers aren’t actively trying to send me into early retirement, they’re simply missing the social graces that evolve with age. My mind travels back to the time my little brother squeezed the breast of one of my mother’s clients at the supermarket. The woman, although shocked, laughed it off with complete poise. And those dwarves taking turns rubbing their cheeks on my unshaved legs and recoiling—a true game of game of pain endurance—aren’t adults; their tiny minds are still incubating and the whole reason for their irritating presence in my personal space is that they need instruction. So instead of harboring misplaced anger, I lined up my little minions and instructed them to come and give teacher some much needed hugs, one-by-one. Not only did this little game put me soul in a much better light, but the little freaks were coming back for seconds and thirds like plump crowds at Golden Corral.

After Hug-O-Rama, as I playfully nicknamed our ‘game’ and which they pronounced “hug-a-llama” (also fitting), I was showered in stickers and given a Power Rangers pin, which I am taking as a symbolic initiation into the inner circle of their five year old cult. After today, I realized that not only is teaching Kindergarten the hardest job in the world maybe besides being the guy that hangs off the back of the garbage truck, it’s equally as rewarding and entertaining, as long as the clown gauges her audience and never has a shortage of bribery tokens. I can also thank my little stooges for allowing me to foster my inner child, who stubbornly refuses to grow up.

I’ll never forget my kindergarten teacher and I truly hope that when I depart from this life that my little trolls will remember the funny antics of Teacher Alex and that weird afternoon she forced us each to embrace her. This post is dedicated to all of the kindergarten teachers out there. From Miss Lippy to Arnold, thank you for being the real-life superheroes for life’s first wave of sweaty recessers! 

But remember children: recess time is not only a special time for you children, but for Miss Lippy too, so stay outside. 

30 Days in a Microwave

I confidently stride into the room, unaware that my short employment stint at a fitness center could never fully prepare me for playing twister in a tropical rain forest. Beads of sweat begin to accumulate in my unmentionable creases and the first trickle descends from the nape of my neck into my poor excuse for cleavage. I loathe sweating yet, sadly, as a particularly wooly breed of albino human, sweating comes as naturally as breathing. I inventory the nearby mats harboring overweight elderly people and overconfidence blankets my sweltering body in the cool air of assumption. Clearly I'll be able to bend my body faster, better and longer than the decaying funeral home field trip that knitted their own yoga towels during craft hour. I'm young, spry and in relatively good shape.

After a few minutes of sweating in the aptly named "dead body" pose, a wilted bean stock saunters gracefully into our humble microwave, his chestnuts securely fastened in a scanty bikini. He introduces himself as the instructor and seems amicable enough, diffusing the aura-sensing palm-reading vibe emitted by most yogis. Ten minutes in and I look like a Niagara Falls tourist without the protective poncho. Sammy Sunshine quickly morphed into Attila the Hun berating us serfs from his Olympic champion-esque platform and I hate him, I hate yoga and I hate gasping for rogue molecules of oxygen amidst clouds of moisture—especially considering this dampness is occupied by the scent of liver and onions.

Utterly perturbed that I've voluntarily engaged in an activity in which I wasn’t instantaneously adept, I humph and grrrph my way through a few half-assed postures, watching as granny's got her foot clear her head and the ninety year old fat man’s been teetering on one leg for what seems like thirty minutes while I've been chugging water and attempting to smear away the sweat congregating on my upper lip. Lindsay is all tunnel vision in the front mirror, executing every posture to perfection even as I attempt to distract her with amusing faces and drowning person thrashing movements. Not the place for humor. 

I leave the class, conscious that the four other classes in my package were as unnecessary as bringing a towel into that steam room orgy. And I effectively evade Bikram yoga for another few months while Lindsay practices nearly every day and continually pushes me to join. Finally, I succumb and purchase a thirty-day package, vowing to finish the notorious tough 30-day challenge, with veteran Linds as my coach and accompanying yoga buddy.

And today I am proud to say after 30 consecutive days, I have completed my Bikram yoga challenge! I made it from work across the island in 30 minutes each day, through monsoons, on flat tires, hung-over, sick and after minor bodily injuries. And strangely, those 90 minutes inside the sun’s ashtray provided more peace and stability in my life than an unlimited Xanax script. Five hundred and forty seconds of thinking of nothing other than remembering to breath and occasionally hold my foot in some unnatural direction. 90 straight minutes of staring at myself in a mirror was like watching the tin man trying to do gymnastics, but I managed to destroy my self deprecating thoughts and the humorous imagery inlaid in this practice, like watching 15 other people twisting themselves into dripping pretzels in some sort of cultish rain dance.

I’m a flamingo! I’m a cobra! Then a rabbit and some sort of jet plane. I morph from one object to the next with the least amount of poise, channeling way more Transformers than Chicago. During floor poses I slink about my confined rectangular kiddy pool in a very newt-ish manner. My face glows a hideous shade of purple and the humidity twists wandering locks of my hair into sweat-soaked tendrils that float beside my face like mangroves along the riverbank.  

WE DID IT!

And after this month, even if I’ve lost not a pound, I feel much happier and peaceful not to mention accomplished. This is the first time I’ve felt truly challenged physically since high school sports and even though at times I just wanted the instructors to leave me be so I can half ass my way through in peace, I thank them for pushing me to my limits and making me enjoy it. I will continue with Bikram yoga as a modification to my existence in general by constantly engaging in things that make me feel challenged and/or uncomfortable. Because if you’re not aching, sweating or straining, you’re not doing it right. 

Different Shades of Grades

Today I am truly humbled. As I briefly mentioned, I am taking a FREE online course with a sociology professor from Princeton via coursera.org. Currently residing abroad sparked a multitude of questions about people from different societies and the human race in general. I wanted to know why we behave the way we do in accordance to the societal conditions placed upon us since birth insofar as to say I want to know what makes people tick, what makes them different and how they respond to life's trials because of their circumstances.

Ive thoroughly enjoyed the class and it's been good to have all these esoteric ideas thrown at me to ponder in my free time. I was yearning for knowledge after being out of the classroom for so long, but wanted to apply the ideas I'd receive to the things I encounter on a daily basis here. A few days ago, I realized it was "exam day." Exam? That word tastes bitter rolling around on my tongue. I haven't had to take a test in about a year and it's been great, but now I'm confronted with a beast of a midterm and of course I didn't study. I mean, I don't HAVE to partake in the midterm as I'm taking this class on my own accord. But my inner nerd screamed SUCK IT UP. The same snarky wench that forced me to do extra credit and make 1000 flash cards for each and every test in college and nearly experienced an aneurism with our first C (ironically in WOMEN'S STUDIES). So I took the test dagummit, and today I'm more than elated with my decision.

Part of the course involves peer evaluation and I had the opportunity to evaluate a fellow student's work. I began reading nameless student's paper and my eye started twitching as I encountered not only the reading comprehension of a fifth grader, but endless spelling and grammatical errors and diction misuse. The inner grammar policewoman inside squirmed in discomfort as I forced myself to grade objectively.

I reach the essay portion of the exam and my heart stops. The student in question is no Princeton snob, not even a Western-educated idiot, rather the student in question is a lower class member of society in a country I've recently become familiar with-- Cambodia, my next-door neighbor here in Thailand. The student interweaves concepts from the class cohesively with his or her own life's circumstances and I'm suddenly impressed by the error ridden grammar and spelling because I realize how difficult it must have been for this person to not only find the time to take this class, but to even understand the language in which lectures and readings are given.

Spending some time in Cambodia among the Khmer people, I know that most of the country is fairly poor and uneducated, yet unaffected by circumstance and eager to learn. This person warmed my heart and awakened my soul in a way in which I'm truly grateful. How wonderful it is that Princeton and other colleges are giving people across the world the opportunity to further their knowledge not only with useless notions inapplicable to their lives, but with relevant ideas that can change the way they think forever.

This student didn't get an A on his or her midterm, he or she will be lucky for a passing grade; however the courage this person displayed in even partaking in a midterm exam composed for students of an IVY LEAGUE school is truly humbling.

I don't think it's any accident that this is the paper I received to evaluate and once again I thank the universe for a gift that lifts me from my own self-absorption and places me in the shoes of another inspiring human being. This world is a very big place and sometimes we don't realize this because were consumed by the need to make an imprint. It isn't until we see the tiny footprints made by another that we see how important it is sometimes to walk beside someone rather than ahead of them.

Smokin' with Granny

Not actually granny, but a dead ringer. Granny may have been older.

Occasionally, life forces get a kick out of molding a routine activity into an unforeseen episode of shock and awe. An event leaving your personal judgment ransacking the cosmos in search of any shred of rationale to apply to this particular situation with which it’s being undermined. A jarring jolt from the universe saying, “I got bored being predictable.” Often these events exist in the form of misfortunes, reminding us that life is precious and we should live as such. Other times, comically misunderstood occurrences illustrate that although unpredictable, life hands you unannounced triumphs from the world of weird; a place hidden somewhere beyond depths of explanation, lacking any sort of reason and overflowing with absurdity.

Yesterday, we went for routine 9 doll-hair massages. After a (somewhat painful) hour-long oil massage—well technically a couple’s oil massage considering the place has three massage beds and no matter whom you go with, you’re getting real up-close and personal—we sat on the massage beds, scantily covered in a sheet drinking ginger tea while one of the women stands there intently inspecting us. We engaged in light conversation, inching towards our belongings, hoping she would pick up on our cues that we’d like to re-dress without a voyeur.

Soon after dressing, paying and assuring her that we’d be back, she continued to chatter, her broken English words compressing to form an off key Asian concerto. I strained to follow her discourse gathering bits and pieces of soliciting and discussion of corporal organs as she frantically points to an anatomy poster on the wall and then back to our bodies. She mentioned something about “FREE” and two minutes later we’re back on the massage tables while “Green,” our chatterbox friend’s in-house witch doctor is pressing her hulk fingers into our stomachs as if attempting to rearrange our internal organs externally.

We cry out in agony at the intense pain being inflicted onto our digestive organs but, not phased by ear-piercing yelps of anguish, the bulldozer continues her probing, intermittently shouting in Thai to Tua, who informs us in English of our digestive downfalls. Similar to a psychic, this Thai alternative medicine woman knew the ailments that had been affecting us for both short and long term periods of time. She went back and forth, bulldozing one stomach while the other sits beneath a sack of warm stones, relishing in the respite from being physically abused. She informs us that we need to “chi” more often, meaning we need to poop regularly, which clearly we would be keen on. Dr. Quinn also mentioned that my liver is experiencing some negative affects due to the alcohol I consume.

In the midst of this bittersweet torture, Green’s daughter saunters in from the back room wearing a nightgown and eating pork rinds while intently watching. Green’s husband sits diagonally from where we’re being “examined” watching Thai soap operas. It was truly a family affair. Moments later, an ancient Thai cadaver muddles through the room, countenance hidden by a thick layer of white powder, although unable to conceal the sunken cheekbones and pursed lips betraying a mouth of absent teeth. I glance at Lindsay and back at the very first Thai matriarch placing every ounce of energy into stifling laughter.

Granny musters the strength to make it to the door, then spins around as if she misplaced her entire reason for moseying on over along with her bicuspids. Again she hobbles back into the room, inching for the door. We shoot questioning glances at Tua, who glances at the white-faced raisin behind her and says “Mama, too much powder!” She begins giggling and wiping the old woman’s face. Granny surveys the room as if having achieved sight for the first time then hobbles outside the glass doors and parks herself and her plastic bags at a picnic table, proceeding to roll some sort of cigarette and puff dense clouds of white smoke into the air like the chimney of a crematorium.

I recall Tua mentioning her mother from a small village in southern Thailand, saying that the woman often came to Phuket to fish, gather mollusks and make a scene at the local Tesco when they refused to allow her to barter for goods.

“Mama live in the old Thailand. She trade for everything, no use money in Pantaloon. Mama come to Phuket and fish.” Not the same Mama.

I assess the physical condition of the 200-year-old woman toking it up outside and ask Tua, “That same Mama that goes fishing?”

Tua nods and emits a laugh akin to a disbelieving chuckle, shocked at the fact that this prehistoric broad is baiting hooks and yanking up sea creatures to trade for tamarinds and mangoes.

“What is mama smoking?” I ask, generally concerned that the thought of filling the dusty lungs of this fossil with smoke may shave a few years off of the decades she undoubtedly has remaining.

“Oh! She smoke Thai herb! You will try!” …We will? Oh hell… we will.

The entire crew ambles outside and Linds and I sit down at the table with Granny. Tua asks her in Thai to roll us a few of her special cigarettes. And we watch as the shriveled, yet nimble appendages of Mother Time set to work. She hands me the creation wrapped in dried banana leaves and a lighter and demonstrates how to effectively light a banana leaf joint.

“What do you think it is?” Lindsay whispers as I reach for the unknown.

            “Probably Opium.”

“Oh, well okay.”

I light it and proceed to inhale and exhale the fluffy whiteness, feeling momentarily lightheaded and giddy after only a puff. Nope, not tobacco. But not marijuana either. After smoking with granny, we still possessed our faculties, but felt loopy, so we stay there for awhile watching granny pound and toss handfuls of a concoction back and slowly but eagerly masticating it with her three visible teeth.

“Now what is she eating?”

            “Thai herb. Very good for skin and stomach… you will eat.”

At this point, we already know we will.  Tua instructs granny to pound us some of her blend with her portable metal mortar and pestle and Wrinkle-toes begins pulling out the supplies for her witches brew: a few green leaves, a substance similar to Crisco and some sort of reddish root. She tosses it all in and begins thrusting her fists together while staring beyond us into the world in which she resides… someplace circa 1850. She ceases pounding and scoops us each a dime-sized amount and Tua instructs us to put it in our mouths and chew.

The chalky substance hit my tongue with the bitterness of an aggrieved ex lover. Linds manages to choke back a vomitous reflex and we smile as if the pile of shrubbery in our mouths is a delectable pastry. Without breaking eye contact or into even a shred of a smile, granny scoops a mountain-sized amount of the stuff into her fist and shovels it into her mouth with the swiftness of ravenous primate. Lindsay and I chuckle a bit and whisper bout the anomaly seated across from us and Tua says, “Mama have no teeth! Haha it take long time to chew.”

In Thai Tua asks Mama how many teeth she has. Granny looks up from her daze and spits a matter-of-face answer between mouthfuls of clay earth.

“Jed.”

Granny knew she has exactly seven teeth and made no apologies for it. No trace of embarrassment, not an ounce of shame. She went back to staring into the great beyond of Chaofa East road and rolled herself another fag. I aspire to the greatness that was this old ass woman--we all need a little more of what she’s smoking.