Hat-full of Hates

I don’t know why the color blue drew the short stick when emotions were being assigned to colors or why no one has ever disputed these meanings ascribed by who knows who to the otherwise ambiguous colors, but I’ve decided to not to comply with the widely accepted unchallenged idea that people are green with envy, red with rage, happy bright yellow personalities, or feeling the winter blues. Why not use chartreuse to describe envy or turquoise joy?  Studies have shown that humans see approximately 1,000 levels of light-dark, which means that the total number of colors we can see is about ten million. Ten million! (There is no valid source for this bit of information, I might as well have just made it up, but its shock value more than its accuracy is what I’m after here). Crayola alone boasts 133 colors in their crayon collection, and this is just in their standard collection which doesn’t include their gem-tones, silly scents, metallic, pearl brite, or glitter collections!  (none of which I had growing up by the way, where were these when I was a kid?)  We experience a myriad of moods and feelings within a single day, why limit their description to the primary colors red, blue, and yellow when you could use colors like Aureolin or Caput Mortuum to describe how you’re feeling (which, by the way, are  bona fide colors, the latter of which was a popular color used for painting the robes of religious figures and important personages, and the former bears all its coolness in the fact that it sounds like an Elvish name from Lord of the Rings)?  I mean, the color red has hundreds of variations, tones, and hues just as the feeling sad has several variations, levels, and intensities.  To cite a personal example, some days, usually out of nowhere and for no particular or rational reason, I feel extra sad, like the overwhelming drowning in it type of sad.  A simple ‘blue’ may not be quite enough to describe how I’m feeling, but Tyrian Purple on the other hand, with its rich deep intensity, is a closer match to my mood on these days.  Then there are other days when I feel very bland, not sad really, not happy or excited, nothing really sounds all that fun to do and I get annoyed or angry really easily and if I manage to muster up enough motivation get myself out of the apartment on these days, I walk around with a furrowed brow and corners of my mouth turned down into a frown, scowling.  Okay, I don’t actually scowl because it’s really a challenge for me to not smile at people, I mean I’ve tried, I’ve actually made a conscious effort before, you know, just to see how it felt, and I failed miserably.  Each attempt only lasted a nanosecond before I was betrayed by my zygomaticus muscles which turned upward at least one if not both corners of my mouth into a slight smile.  These particular days, these I-don’t-feel-like-doing-anything-everything-annoys-me-more –than-usual-and-I’m-smiling-at-you-only-because-I-physically-can’t-help-it days, are my grey days, just unexceptional flat grey.  It was on a particularly grey day that I decided it necessary, in order to keep balance in the universe, that I must follow up my list of loves from the previous post with an equal and opposing list of hates.  So if you are looking for some happy turquoise reading material, perhaps you ought to stop now, but if you feel up for a bit of cynicism heavily peppered with humor, forge ahead my friend.

1. I hate dead Christmas trees piled up on the sidewalk blocking the door to our apartment building.  When we came back from Israel it was as if while we were gone, a live reenactment of Macbeth had taken place and our street was Dunsinane castle bombarded by the tree-bearing Irish army and our front stoop was the spot where the order was given to throw down their leafy disguises.  If someone were to make a horror movie for Christmas trees this would be the ideal set, with slaughtered pine trees strewn throughout the streets, torn from their homes in the forest to be bedecked with kitschy ornaments and put on display in a small apartment in the city.  But after a few short days they adapt and accept their new fate and just when they begin to feel at peace in their new home, finding meaning in the joy their presence brings to others, they are torn yet again from that place after just a few short weeks once their purpose has been fulfilled and their presence no longer seasonally appropriate.  Once stripped of their twinkling lights and brightly-colored ornaments, their naked carcasses are lobbed, hurled, launched out the window into the gelid winter air.  They land with a thud on the cold hard pavement where they will remain, for at least a month, until one morning as I’m headed down the stairs of our apartment building, debating in my head whether I will squeeze past the tree this morning or attempt the more adventurous option and climb over it, I open the door to find a clear open path before me.  The trees had been taken away along with all evidence of their kidnapping (tree napping?), existence, death, and the season so heavily affiliated with their presence. 

I hate the dead Christmas trees littering the sidewalks, blocking our door and our walking paths, but I realized once they had gone that I loved how their presence made the Christmas season persist just a little longer.  Their absence is now a depressing reminder that Christmas is once again an entire year away.  And while I hated clambering over them, I did love how as I did so, the perfect smell of dried pine was the first scent to greet my nose each time I left the apartment, which was much preferred to the usual smell of smoke and poo.

2. I hate sitting on ice cold toilet seats.  Our toilet has been impractically placed in the entry room, inches from our front door, in a closet space too small to close the door while sitting on the toilet if you happen to be one of those people who has knees.  I’ve got out of the habit of shutting the door when I go into the bathroom, which is fine in our apartment where it’s just the two of us, but makes for slightly awkward situations anywhere else.  But it’s not the size that’s the issue here, it’s the algid porcelain which has daily contact with my bum that I hate.  While our front door and its three locks may be effective in keeping out burglars, it’s absolutely useless when it comes to keeping out cold air and keeping in the warm.  The only benefit to it is if you want to know how cold it is outside before actually going out, all you have to do is step into the entryway.  As a result of the “room” the toilet is in being cold, the toilet itself is also cold, very cold, and it makes going to the bathroom an activity I now associate with feelings of anxiety and dread.  It’s quite possible I come away from this winter in Budapest with a myriad of issues; constipation, bed-wetting, issues of that sort.  I think fondly on the days long ago as if from a dream, when I enjoyed the luxury of sitting groggily on the toilet each morning as I woke up and prepared to face the day.  I’ve come to the conclusion that chamber pots were not such a bad idea and I can’t say that if I was in possession of one, and was more confident in my ability to aim, I’d not jump at the opportunity to wee in it if it meant I wouldn’t have to subject my toasty fresh-out-of-bed cheeks to the frozen toilet seat in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning.  I really hate cold toilet seats, but had ours been located in a warmer part of the apartment, I may never have developed the rock hard quads I know possess as a direct result of doing the hover squat to avoid any skin/toilet contact.  So I guess there’s that. 

3. I hate that my bladder is equipped with a faulty GPS device which senses when it is close to home and decides prematurely that it is suddenly okay to relinquish all control.  There is no gradual increasing urgency that serves as a warning to me that I should quicken my pace; it’s just me, happily strolling along and then WHAM! like a punch to the gut it hits me.  I’ve got to go and I’ve got to go right now!  It fails to take into account the few extra meters until I reach the door to our building, forgets that I have yet to punch in the code, open the heavier-than-necessary door requiring me to tighten my abdominal muscles, causing them to press against my bladder increasing the urge to pee, climb the first flight of stairs to the elevator and either use the elevator if it’s already on the ground level and pray that no one else tries to get in there with me because that would mean I would either have to accept looking ridiculous in front of them or remove my hand which is now serving as a dam and the only thing keeping my pee from exiting my body, or I frantically climb the 4 flights of stairs to our apartment, pigeon-toed because for some unknown reason that position helps me not pee, pausing every now and then putting my kegel exercises to the ultimate test, to wait for the pee surges to subside before I can continue on, then upon finally reaching the top, attempt to unlock two sticky locks that often need to be jiggled just so, which one just simply cannot do whilst one hand is in disposed, and I am mincing about  on my toes doing the potty dance, all the while trying to be as discrete as possible in case our neighbors might come out their front door and spot me and my inability to exercise the control that most people learn by the age of three, mentally prepare myself for the afore-mentioned frigid toilet seat my poor bum and thighs are about to come in contact with (because hovering is not an option during times of urgency), throw off my backpack, and pull down my pants, which thank heavens do not require any fidgeting with buttons or unzipping of zippers seeing as how most of them are either too big and so just slide right off with a slight tug or are geniusly made with an elastic waistband.  It is an extremely stressful 60 seconds during which I experience an elevation in blood pressure an increase in heartrate and perspiration, all of which could be avoided if my bladder just wasn’t so overanxious.  However, the feeling of relief and relaxation that I experience once my bum is sat upon that icy porcelain throne, that feeling right there is so sublime that it almost makes the whole experience worth it. 

4. I hate dog poop on sidewalks!  I say this loudly with clenched fists and a stomped foot, much like a child throwing a tantrum.  Look, I know I’ve mentioned this one before but I encounter it every day multiple times a day and it’s one of those things that I never become inured to, it never gets less annoying with time.  I’d venture to say that it actually becomes more annoying with time because each time it has a personal encounter with your shoe you hate it even more.  And to be fair, when I mentioned it before, I didn’t include the element of rain.  Picture, if you will, a surprising amount of little brown piles, water dumping on them all day, never hard enough to wash them away mind you, but just enough to transform them from a fairly solid mass into a soggy runny substance that spreads itself over a significant portion of the sidewalk, making it even more difficult to evade, ensuring frequent contact with the shoes of unfortunate passersby.  So either equally or maybe even slightly more than the regular kind, I hate soggy dog poo.  However, as I was jogging down the sidewalk on such a drizzly day, I was pleasantly reminded of my blissful elementary school days when such things as recess, a designated time each day dedicated solely to playing, was not just a fantasy, but a beautiful reality during which I would find such simple joy in playing hopscotch with my friends, ponytails swinging as we skillfully hopped our way from box to box.

Next time: The hat isn't full until you have 10!  Hates continued!

Top 10 loves continued!

5. I love catching adults doing things they should probably have never started doing in the first place but definitely should have outgrown by the fourth grade.  The first time I saw a person eat his own boogers is a memory that for some reason my mind has held onto and perfectly preserved like the ancient Egyptians with their pharaohs.  I was in the second grade, new to the school and sat toward the back of the room, the perfect location for wearily observing my fellow peers.  One day while amusing myself by watching my classmate Mark determinedly digging around in his nose for the perfect little morsel, I watched in confusion and horror (and as my memory recalls, slow motion) as his finger, with said morsel perched atop it, travelled from his nostril to his mouth.  Instinct told me to cry out and warn him, “Mark wait! You don’t know what you’re doing!” certain that he just must not realize that while probing around in his nose, something attached itself to his finger which was now about to enter his mouth!  It wasn’t until his lips closed around his finger and I heard the satisfying slurp as he sucked it off that I realized that this action was completely deliberate.  I was disgusted yet intrigued that someone would intentionally eat something that came out of their nose.  And now, ever since that day sitting in the back of Mrs. Marafino’s 2nd grade classroom, anytime I see someone picking their nose I wait anxiously, eyes fixed on them, to see if whatever they find up there will be deemed as trash or treat, snot or snack.  Mark was the first but he was definitely not the last and I have seen many a booger consumed since, usually by children.  However, there is the occasional adult who just never grew out of that phase, who still craves the salty snack so conveniently provided by our own bodies.  I was walking home from a festival in the park the other day when I saw a grown man eating his boogers, in broad daylight, masses of people all around and zero attempt at discretion, as if it were a completely acceptable adult behavior.  I stood and stared, also with zero discretion, as his finger repeatedly traveled from the inside of his nose to the inside of his mouth, numerous times, like he just couldn’t get enough of a good thing.  

6. I love that rather than just being a tool for recreation as they are in the United States, Razor scooters have inserted themselves in Budapestian society as a practical and widely-accepted means of transportation.  Before I came to Budapest, I thought of razor scooters as a short-lived fad among young children and adolescents.  You can imagine my delight then when I saw an entire family, mom, dad and three kids in-tow, scooting their way across one of the many bridges over the Danube.  As with the booger snacking, this would be the first of many such sightings.  Adults of all ages, men in suits and women in heels can be seen daily zipping around the city to their various destinations with the wind in their hair, sun on their faces, and youthful zeal in their swinging leg pushing them along; a significantly more pleasant commute than sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

7. I love when things get lost in translation.  Have you ever used google to translate a web page into English and even though it’s riddled with grammatical errors, most of the time you can pretty much get the gist of what it says, but then sometimes it’s just a bunch of random words all jumbled up into one nonsensical mess?  So we were eating out at a Chinese restaurant last week and even though I love the act of eating to a degree above that which is probably considered to be healthy, my favourite part of the meal actually came at the end, when the eating had ceased and we were given the bill (This is usually my least favourite part, unless someone other than myself is paying for it, then it feels kind of exciting like I just won something).  Included on the receipt amongst the carbonated water and unexceptional vegetarian egg rolls and fried rice was “Exploding fried potato silk”…..perhaps also known as potato chips?  Hash browns? We’re still trying to figure it out.

8. I love how kids have no concept of time.  In my church I teach a Sunday school class for kids ages 5- 11.  I usually like to start off the class by asking them to share something good or exciting that happened to them during the week.  We had a cute 5-year-old girl who was in our class for the first time last Sunday so I explained what we did at the start of each class and began with the kid at the end of the row opposite her so she could have time to think of something.  When it got to be her turn I said, “Okay, what is something good or fun that you got to do this week?”  And she sat there for a minute in her red fluffy dress, dangling her feet clad in sparkly red shoes as she thought real hard before looking up at me and saying in her sweet little voice that was almost a whisper, “Um, I don’t know what a week is.”  Amazing.  Not the only time I’ve felt jealous of a five-year-old.

9. I love good live music that really makes you feel.  Jare and I recently went to see Austra a Canadian band we like, at a venue just a walk away from our flat, and you know how even though you are alive you can sometimes feel kind of dead (ok, “dead” sounds a little melodramatic, you could substitute the eloquent “blah” for dead here if you’d prefer) but you don’t even realize that you feel that way until something happens that makes you feel alive again and you think “Oh yeah, I remember this feeling!”  Well that something was Austra and their mystical, enchanting, theatrical, and completely uninhibited ways. Watching them onstage with their neon makeup and eccentric clothing, they seemed free of fear and had this liberating air of complete disregard for social pressures and constraints.  The lead singer’s  free spirit was infectious and spread throughout the entire audience until we were all jumping and dancing to her magnetic voice accompanied by the band’s electronic sounds that were sometimes so loud it vibrated the inside of my face and made my nose tickle.  Other than the lack of space for adequate twirling, arm flinging and body flailing, it was one of those perfect rare moments when I was exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I wanted to be doing and I loved life, and I think I loved it so much because I felt alive you know? I mean really alive, like every cell of my body had been woken up, and I could suddenly see things more clearly and feel things more vibrantly.  I felt perfectly happy, free of worry and stress caused by the silly things in life that unnecessarily crowd my mind with anxiety.  it was perfect and I felt completely lost in the moment and my mind felt free and inspired and we were both suddenly convinced that making music and performing shows like this was exactly what we needed to be doing and everything else that did not directly contribute to achieving that goal was an unnecessary distraction in our lives that should be immediately done away with.  That feeling lasted until the next morning when we woke up and continued to go about business as usual, but every now and then, we see or experience something again that makes us believe or maybe reminds us rather, that we are meant for something greater than the day-to-day grind we are currently caught up in.  There’s this aching desire to do something great with our lives, to create positive change in the world.  Somehow though, that feeling fades so quickly, like it’s just a glimpse that you get, but how do you hold onto that feeling and turn that glimpse into a gaze so you don’t wake up the next morning and just go about your lives exactly as you did before when you were ‘dead’ and didn’t even know it?

Why do we not act on those feelings? Why do we let them slip away while we simultaneously slip back into complacency instead of dropping everything right then and chasing after them? Is it because there’s too much risk in it?  Is it because we worry that by so doing, we would not be able to fulfill our other responsibilities and therefore let others down? Is it because it perhaps requires doing something outside the norm and other people won’t understand? I get easily frustrated and overwhelmed sometimes with this heavy feeling that my life and the things I’m doing are not necessarily meaningless but not meaningful enough and I am not the big positive force in the world that I want to be.  I get down on myself for not doing things every day that really matter.  Like what are we doing sitting in classes for hours a day when there are people to feed, songs to write, the sad to uplift, and gardens to grow?  Jaron wisely points out though, that the steps to achieving something great are more often than not mundane, monotonous, seemingly selfish, and boring but if you can have the foresight and the patience to wade through that monotony to the point of it paying off, you can do really really great things.  I think it’s daunting to leave the beaten path, the surety and stability of a well-traveled road with its ruts already worn in for you to follow, and head off into the tall grasses of uncertainty where lies the possibility of losing your way or encountering danger.  But somewhere there in the chaos of the tall grass lies also the possibility of finding something far greater than perhaps you’d have ever found while clinging to the safety of the road already traveled by so many who have gone before.   

10. I love space heaters. I just love them so much.  Would you believe that along with an immersion blender and a bottle of beer, that this blessed apartment came stocked with a space heater as well?! Amazing.  I’ve developed quite the intimate relationship with this wonderful grey little gizmo. We never stray too far from one another and spend a large portion of every day in close contact.  Wherever I go it goes and provides me with a constant stream of hot air like the Sirocco winds from the Sahara (minus the dust).  The only thing keeping me from taking it to bed with me is the bold lettering on top that says “DO NOT COVER!”  I fail to see the risk involved in this though.  The only downside I can really think of to snuggling with it under the blankets is that maybe I die of shock when, as I’m falling asleep, I notice that the ten little icicles I’m accustomed to having attached at the ends of my feet as I climb into bed have suddenly become ten piping hot little sausages and actually, when you think about it, is that really even a downside? I mean dying in my bed blissfully happy with toasty warm toes?  Doesn’t sound like too shabby of a way to go if you ask me.  Not too shabby at all.    

Next week: Extreme disparity in the animal world 

Let me introduce you to my friend Keaira

So Jaron has been learning a lot in his program about the business world and as is to be expected when being introduced to the enthralling information which the subjects of accounting and economics have to offer, he has a desire to share that newly-acquired information with me.  and although my brain has the absorbent capacity of a no-name- non-quicker-picker-upper Bounty paper towel when it comes to topics like accounting and economics, there are a few drops that it manages to suck up and retain.  

Let’s take opportunity cost for example.  Opportunity cost: the value of what is forgone or sacrificed in order to have something else.  This is different for everyone according to their current needs or wants and priorities.  So for this year in Budapest, we could say that Jaron has sacrificed fun and time with his wife (kind of synonymous those two) in order to learn how the “invisible hand” turns the wheels of the economy, that elasticity is more than just a necessary feature for every waistband, that absolute advantage is preferable to comparative advantage, and to learn the mysteries of how to ensure a production that meets the quantities indicated by the production possibility frontier.  While fun with wife in exchange for lasting knowledge may be a worthwhile temporary trade, it means that I’m short a husband and a friend the majority of the time, and seeing as how Jaron is kind of my only friend here, I tend to get a bit lonely.  I mean, I’m easily able to fill my days with wonderful things like exploring Budapest, which is an amazing city with endless churches and streets and museums to explore, with food, I get an unusually high level of satisfaction from concocting new meals and recipes and have succeeded in producing surprisingly good vegetable samosas, chapatis, veggie lasagnas, soups, raw vegan energy bars, raw nut milk, and nearly mastered the art of raw vegan chocolate making, I paint till my eyes hurt and practice the guitar till the tips of my fingers feel bruised (actually I don’t but I should be). I fill my days. But I still miss human interaction and since it’s not every day that a group of fun British men willing to let me gamble away their savings comes rolling through town, I set out to find another outlet to fill my social needs.  

Enter youtube sensation Keaira Lashae, a beautiful, curvy, spunky woman who teaches Zumba from her living room.  As we were shimmying together in my kitchen to the beats of her music selection and her encouraging words, I found myself responding to her comments and chuckling at her humor.  I realized that I liked her company. I liked having someone to talk to.  It felt good to have another voice in the room, even if it was coming from my computer speakers.  Keaira opened my eyes to a whole world of possibilities and potential friendships.  I have her to thank for my current chummy relationships with the likes of Gillian Michaels, Chris Freytag, Denise Austin, and other sensational youtube fitness personalities.  We hang out at my place for about an hour every day.  They are always available, always have motivational things to say to me, consistently energetic, and when I’m sick of one, I just have one of the others over and never have to worry about them getting offended.  It may not be a legitimate relationship or ideal, but it fills the void, and they smile at me, which, in spite of their good looks and ridiculously perfectly toned bodies makes them more approachable and less intimidating than the unsmiling strangers on the street.

Top 10 list of things I love:

1. I love walking by an old building and experiencing the cool air and musty smell that wafts up from their basement windows.

2. I love our apartment.  I love its high ceilings, the super efficient shutters outside the windows that make it so dark it seems like it’s the middle of the night even though the sun has been out for hours, our down comforter that keeps me toasty on the coldest of nights, our balcony, the smell of smoke that permeates our entire apartment when our neighbors are smoking in the stairwell, the hospital and therefore the many hospital patients smoking in their fuzzy pink and blue bathrobes across the street, the lovely older lady on our same floor who hates wearing a bra but loves wearing a tank top while she’s hanging clothes outside to dry.  There are many things to love about our apartment, but I have to say that the thing I love most about it is that it came fully furnished, not only with furniture mind you but with towels, sheets, cleaning supplies, random and completely uncoordinated artwork on the walls, dishes, an immersion blender, and a bottle of beer in the fridge.   All of these accoutrements were taken advantage of right away except the bottle of beer.  Since we don’t drink alcohol it just sat there in our fridge unmoved for the better part of a month, until one evening when I was home alone, feeling bored and missing Jare, one thing led to another and I convinced myself that I couldn’t just let it go to waste and since I didn’t have any friends whom I could give it to, I would just have to make beer bread with it!  So I did just that and it was amazing and the easiest bread I’ve ever made in my life.  I love beer bread.

3. I love walking.  I prefer walking to taking the metro to explore the city because when I walk I get lost slower.  I figure with my track record, I’m inevitably going to get lost but if I’m walking, it talks longer.  Plus, when you walk somewhere you see and experience so much more that you would have otherwise missed had you taken a faster method such as the metro or bus.

4. I love how the clothes people wear here are chosen with complete disregard for the actual temperature outside and influenced wholly by the date.  There seems to come a day when the collective understanding is reached that summer is officially over and therefore any outfit which does not include a sweater and scarf is deemed inappropriate.  It’s the most amazing phenomenon, like there’s this rule that everyone strictly follows, that on a specific day everyone is to don their scarves, sweaters, jackets, and boots –and everybody does it, really, and I’m pretty sure it’s on the very first day of autumn because I first noticed it on the same day that google’s doodle was a cute little animated man jumping around turning green leaves on trees all the beautiful yellows and reds of autumn, indicating I’m fairly certain, the commencement of fall.  Even though it wasn’t even all that cold outside yet I thought I better follow suite.  So against reason, I made an attempt at conforming, and it was even with a bit of enthusiasm that I slipped my cozy sweater over my head and wrapped the familiar scarf about my neck, fully equipped to face the blustery autumn air.  I only lasted five minutes outside before the scarf was frantically being unwound from my stifled neck and it became absolutely necessary to remove my sweater before all the water I drank previously was lost through my armpits.  I’m now back to lighter clothes and regardless of the date, will remain so until a significant drop in the temperature indicates the necessity to do otherwise. 

Tomorrow: Top 10 list of things I love continued

Budapics

View of the Buda side from a bridge

Parliament 

Jare's place of residence during the daytime - Central European University's business school

Apparently Freddie Mercury attempted to buy this castle after their Magic Tour in 1986 .  It was first completed in 1265 and housed the Hungarian kings in Budapest

Chasing aces with a bevy of Brits

Desperate times call for desperate measures

There I was, sitting around a table in a pub in the late afternoon with eight middle-aged drunk British men, a hazy cloud of smoke hovering above us.  My palms were sweaty, heart thumping in my chest. Chasing aces was the game and the stakes were high. It was down to the last three. One of us would either walk out of there $80 richer or with empty pockets.  It all depended on how the next three rounds panned out.  Had you asked me that morning what my plan for the day was, my response would have been very different from the day’s actual proceedings and I dare say, would not have included gambling with a bevy of charming boozy Brits either.

The day started out normal enough with the usual oatmeal and bananas for breakfast accompanied by a little reading followed by a brief workout.  I’d heard about a horse racing festival going on in the main park the following day and decided I would go see how the set up was coming along.  The most ambitious of the booth owners had already set up shop and were busily cooking and selling all kinds or delicious looking foods and assortments of sweets.  I passed by an impressive looking table covered in perfect pyramids of what I initially thought were regular chocolates.  Upon taking a closer look I spotted the heavenly word ‘Marzipan’ on nearly every tag placed in front of each chocolaty mound.  Had they been cheaper or I richer, my lack of decision making capabilities coupled with my sugar obsession would have undoubtedly resulted in the purchase of at least one of each, but alas, they were anything but cheap so I painstakingly settled on two. So I had just purchased some overly priced but totally worth it from the looks of them marzipan chocolates and was feeling all bubbly inside as I reached my hand into the bag, still undecided whether or not I would save any to bring home for Jare.  My fingers just barely brushed the dusted cocoa surface of one of the little delectables when a blond man with the build of a Viking walked up to me and asked if I had a spare hour.  I looked at him incredulously with double raised eyebrows since in my old life a spare minute was hard to squeeze out of the day. “A spare hour?!”  Then I remembered that this is my new life, and in my new life I don’t have work or school or friends with which to fill my days.  I did have a spare hour.  In fact, I had five. At the time however I did not expect to spend all of those five with him.  He asked if I would be willing to help him and his friends out and pointing to one of those group tour bikes across the plaza offered me all the free beer I wanted if I would just help them pedal around the city for an hour.  Did it cost anything? Not a dime, he said.  What if I don’t drink?  Not a problem, he said. Deal.  He walked me to the bike, introduced me to his friends and went off to scout for one more peddler. Once said peddler was procured we were off!  With Oasis’ ‘Wonderwall’ blaring and all of us singing along at the top of our lungs we cruised (at the slowest pace possible to still qualify as cruising) around the city handing out cups of beer to homeless men and any other soul they deemed fit for a free beer along the way.  People were waving, taking pictures, and the drivers who weren’t angry at being stuck behind us were pointing and smiling.  We even got a delivery van to push us along for a bit until the pressure of his van against the bike broke his headlight.  The tour ended on a street known for its hip pubs and cafes.  Jare was still at school and this lot proved to be much more fun than wandering around alone so I went in with them, they bought me a peach juice, and roped me and another couple into a game of cards. I told them I didn’t gamble or have any money with me with which to gamble anyhow, so one of them contributed my share into the collective pot and with that, secured my spot in the game.

 

and so there we were. $80 on the table and it was down to three.  The cards were dealt and before I had time to comprehend what had just happened, I was out.  Just like that? I was crushed.  Minutes after the game began I set about in my mind fantasizing about how many weeks of groceries that money could buy us, or maybe Jare and I could splurge a bit and eat out at a restaurant other than our go to $1 falafel pizza joint! You see, I had already spent the winnings in my mind before the game was even over and when I lost I didn’t just lose the money, I lost all the hopes and dreams that came along with it. I said my goodbyes and with head hung low, started on my way home. Jare had called about a half hour earlier and told me he was home.  I planned on going home a few short minutes after speaking with him but the image I had of myself reaching across the table and victoriously scooping the winnings up into my arms held me hostage there until the bitter end. I had to see it through.  I had a chance at winning!  I realized that it was the exciting prospect of taking the pot that kept me there longer – the thought of “free money” was so appealing.  Then I got to thinking, what does that say about me? Does that make me lazy? Does it mean that I don’t like to work for my money?  That I’d rather be given things in life than earn them?  In my mind, these were not good traits to possess.  I felt a bit troubled about these new self-discoveries but told myself it was a one-time thing and promptly dismissed the thoughts.

A few days later I found myself in the women’s bathroom in a shopping mall guiltlessly wrapping copious amounts of toilet paper around my hand and stuffing it into my bag.  I opened the stall door to find the squat cleaning lady standing outside it. I quickly averted my eyes and kept them fixed on the tiled floor as I hurriedly walked past her and out the door, all the while feeling her eyes burning a hole in my bag. Did she know?  Could she tell that I had wads of stolen mall toilet paper in my bag? I only glanced back over my shoulder once before reaching the doors to the outside and was relieved to find that she was not hot on my heels.  When I arrived home I promptly unpacked the toilet paper from my bag and with satisfaction placed it neatly on the toilet back.  “there,” I thought to myself, “that’ll last us about three days.” instead of the look of pride and adoration I had anticipated seeing spread across Jare’s face when I told him I had stolen toilet paper from the mall bathroom, he looked at me perplexed and with concern in his eyes as he asked, “Why?”  It wasn’t until then that I realized just how far gone I was. The appeal of free money is understandable, but getting excited over free toilet paper when you can get a pack of 8 rolls for a dollar is just weird.  Who does that? How did I get here?  How did I become this person who gambles and steals???  What has become of me??!!!  Desperate times my friends. Desperate times.

We have been living here for about a month now and paying for things like rent, food, health insurance, and pesky exorbitant residency application costs, which actually wouldn’t have been a problem had the government loan we were so heavily relying on come through already.  But it hadn’t, and the already meager funds in our bank accounts were ever dwindling, creating a proportional rise in my anxiety levels in response.  The end result was a desperate girl forced into a life of crime, gambling, and having to choose between chocolates when really she’d prefer to have them all.  What kind of a life is that?   

Well it’s a week later and our loan has finally come in.  I’d like to say that it was out of desperation that I behaved the way I did; that it was desperation which made me giddy at the thought of easy money and turned me into a crazy lady in a bathroom stall frantically stuffing toilet paper into my bag.  But I’d be lying if I did.  Even though our bank accounts are replenished and my anxiety is practically nonexistent, I still swipe the extra napkins from our table in restaurants and slip them into my bag and it is very likely that I will make an unnecessary  trip to the bathroom next time I’m at the shopping mall and help myself to inordinate amounts of their toilet paper.  I found 50 euros lying next to 100 Czech koruna on the ground on my walk home today and the excitement I felt when wide-eyed I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket was equal to that which I would have felt had I found it just after spending our very last penny.  So I guess it isn’t just desperate times that lead to desperate measures. Maybe I just like the easy money and free stuff after all.

next time:  zumba with Keaira Lashae and my list of loves