And the winner of the worst Valentine’s Day goes to…
Valentine’s Day is a bad day for a lot of people. It is a reminder that you are alone, or a race to meet someone/society’s expectations. Many end up disappointed. For some, it’s simply a painful reminder of loved ones who are gone.
This post isn’t meant to make any statements about Valentine’s Day. I’m not trying to tell anyone how to feel. I have had my share of depressing Valentine’s Days. I’ve been alone and let myself feel lonely, and I’ve been in a relationship with someone who would rather fight than celebrate love. My current feelings come from the perspective of an obnoxiously happy married person, so I’ll keep them to myself.
Our church has a ministry serving Atlanta’s homeless. One of the many things they do is serve chili at a shelter for women and children every Tuesday night. I started helping in November – not because I’m such a giving person or because I love homeless people. I did it because I need purpose in my life. I need a reason to leave my apartment occasionally.
They ask us to sign up for two Tuesdays a month, and one of mine this month happened to be Valentine’s Day. Again, I didn’t pick this night because of any good part of me. I picked it because I knew Jonathan would be on a trip, and I want to be free to do other things when he is home.
All day as I watched my news feed scroll, I read people’s comments on Valentine’s Day. There are those who send love out to all their friends, those who share what their significant other did or bought for them, and those who want nothing to do with it. There’s nothing wrong with any of these. To each their own.
As I got in the car to drive to the shelter, I turned on the heat in the car and couldn’t help but think how easily I had access to heat while the people I was going to see don’t even have homes. Next I wondered how we can complain about not having a date/not getting a gift/not getting the perfect gift (Not picking on anyone. I’ve been there) when these people have nothing?
At the shelter, I recognized a lady who has been there ever since my first visit. Because it’s supposed to be transitional, there aren’t beds. We have to be cleared out by eight so they can put the sleeping mats down on the floor. Over a hundred women and children sleep and eat in one big room.
Tonight we served a lady who had a thirteen-day-old baby and another who had a two year old and was due any day. I can’t imagine what it must be like. At 7 months, I have a hard time getting comfortable in our cushy bed – I can’t imagine sleeping on a mat. I can’t imagine trying to care for a newborn in a shelter. My heart breaks for these ladies and their children.
And though I’m not a Valentine’s Day hater this year, I still needed the reality check. I can’t fix these ladies’ lives. I can’t even fix the lives of my lonely loved ones. But I can take this opportunity to correct my perspective. To realize where my complaints fall in the big scheme of things, and to be reminded that whichever way I turn and whatever calamities should come my way, I am surrounded by people who love me. That right there is reason enough to be happy year round.
Like this:
Something in the way she moves
When I first found out I was pregnant, the days seemed to crawl by. I wanted to be able to tell everyone. I wanted to be out of the risky first trimester. I wanted to have a reason to believe there was actually a life growing inside of me other than nausea and a weird sense of smell.
Now, almost six months later, there is no question that there is someone living inside of me. While it may seem weird to some people, this is the part of having children that I always knew I wanted to experience (possibly more than actually raising them) – that of having a living being growing inside my body.
I remember the first time I felt her. I was lying in bed with my hands pressed against my lower belly. I hadn’t felt the flutters or gas-like feelings that some people have, so I was trying to get a feel from the outside. I was anxious to know there was something in there and that all the weird changes were for a reason. It felt like someone quickly nudged their knuckle against my palm through a blanket. It was so exciting.
And then I didn’t feel her again for a few weeks.
Eventually I started to recognize the flutters. I’d try to get Jonathan to feel her, but she’d either stop moving or was too far inside. Then, after more weeks went by, I started to feel and then see more significant movements – kicks and rolls and then what felt like Mexican jumping beans. I imagined she was doing somersaults or synchronized swimming. One time when he was being silly Jonathan put his head on my belly and was promptly kicked in the face.
As she continued to grow, I started to feel movements on one side and down past my belly button on the other – at the same time. She had long since stopped being the size of a fig or an avocado and was the size of a head of cauliflower. Then she was longer than Jonathan’s foot.
She started to be the size of a baby. A baby that would one day grow to be an adult and possibly have babies of her own. That brought on a whole crazy thought process that I’ll share another time.
Sometimes as I lie down with a book propped on my belly, it seems like she is trying to knock it off. Sometimes it looks like my belly is boiling. She fights against my waistband when I sit and doesn’t like the pressure of the seat belt. Even now, she is pushing on my forearm as it rests against my stomach. I wish I could see what she is doing in there that causes so much movement. For the last month or so, I can almost set my watch to her break dancing at 11pm.
In the last week, I’ve noticed her movements are changing again. Occasionally she gets the hiccups and I feel the slight, rhythmic movement inside. Other times I look at my belly and am reminded of what we see when a whale surfaces just enough to show its back and then slides back under. Or, the dome of my stomach will be significantly higher and firmer on one side. I still get the swift punches and kicks, but there are a lot more slow “space is getting tighter in here” movements. I still can’t figure out what body part I’m seeing or feeling.
And, it is as amazing as I always thought it would be. I’ve read that for some women it’s hard to adjust to having an empty uterus after the baby is born, and I am beginning to understand that. Right now, she is always there reminding me of her presence – when I’m cooking and my belly presses against the counter, when she doesn’t want to share my lap with another baby or a laptop, or even when I wake a little during the night.
This time last year I was conquering my fear of motorbikes and getting ready for my first lunar new year. My current adventure might not photograph as well, but I think it’s just as wild a ride.
Like this:
And then there were three
For the last several months I have dropped into a blogging black hole, and in some ways I feel like my life has slipped into a completely different universe. The only part of my life that is the same as it was in September (the last time I wrote) is that I’m still happily married. (And, unpoppable bubble wrap still makes me mad.)
Now, instead of living in tropical Saigon, I live in chilly Atlanta. I no longer get my head buzzed for $1 every two weeks (let’s not talk about how much I pay now.) I drive a car instead of a motorbike and spend dollars instead of đong. I’m no longer able to bargain for purchases, and I understand everyone around me (for better or for worse.) The jet setting has all but stopped (for now).
The biggest change of all, though, is that I’m pregnant. In four months we’ll have a little girl. I’ll tell the story later, but she was a huge surprise. We weren’t expecting to end our stay in Vietnam so soon, but between the pregnancy and other circumstances we decided to come home when Jonathan’s contract expired at the end of September.
We’ve been home just over two months and are settled into an apartment. We came back at the perfect time. I was tired of sweating, having difficulty finding foods that appealed to me, and October is the most beautiful month in Georgia. Adjusting to life here has been a lot easier than I expected. After all, we are returning to our own culture. The hardest part has been doing everything as a tired, pregnant woman.
Life in Atlanta may not be as dramatic or as picturesque as it was in Vietnam, but every day the adventure continues.
It’s good to be home.
How Vietnam burst my bubble
Bubble wrap is one of life’s simplest joys. I’m thirty years old and still enjoy popping it. There’s something satisfying about going along each row and feeling each little bubble disappear. I love when you think it’s all popped and you find one that you missed.
I complain about Vietnam a lot. There are a lot of things I love about this place, but there are just as many things that drive me crazy. Poorly made products is at the top of the list of dislikes. They seem to be able to make everything here, but few things are made to last. Usually I just take it in stride and accept that it is part of life here. That is, until it began to encroach on my bubble wrap popping fun.
I had this piece of bubble wrap.
Isn’t lovely? This type of wrap is more about quality than quantity: bigger bubbles with a louder pop, but less of them. I decided to wait until I was in a bubble-popping mood and put the wrap away for a while. When I finally decided it was time, I was met with huge disappointment.
This is the worst bubble wrap ever. It’s not hundreds of tiny plastic bubbles – it’s a long chain of air-filled plastic that WON’T POP! If you squeeze one bubble the air just moves into the next bubble, squishing back and forth in a teasing and incredibly unsatisfying way.
What is bubble wrap’s allure anyway? Why do we so enjoy popping it? Any ideas?
In other news, I have an update on my shiny fingernails. I normally have nails that are too hard to bite through. They grow until I start damaging myself and have to cut them. A few days after the nail polishing my nails became brittle and started breaking on the corners. It turns out that the vigorous buffing removes so much of the nail that they are too weak to grow past the end of the nail bed. So, even though it seemed like a good idea, I no longer recommend it.
Today is our one year anniversary. One year since the best party ever. One year of being the Lewises. It’s been wonderful.
Since I’m still working on writing the tale of how we came to be married, I thought I’d share some of the awesome – and sometimes awesomely bad – things that have made up this past year.
- Living for one month in Jonathan’s apartment with all of our belongings piled inside
- Mini-moon in San Diego (with my brother and Jonathan’s friends)
- A trans-oceanic move in September
- Nineteen days living at the Thang Loi in Hanoi – home of the world’s hardest beds
- A weekend at Ha Long Bay for Air Mekong’s wing ceremony
- Thirteen days living in the dark dungeon that is Saigon’s Bong Sen Hotel
- Learning to live in a tiny hotel room together (which includes sitting in the bathroom if you want to stay up and read while the other sleeps)
- Apartment hunting the Vietnamese way, and eventually finding our first home together
- Me learning to be unemployed and financially dependent after five years as a flight attendant.
- Jonathan flying for the first privately owned airline in Vietnam and learning to fly the old-school way – complete with language barriers, no dispatchers, and no national weather radars
- One permanently smelly refrigerator
- A month without coffee in the house (In Jonathan’s words “A terrible, terrible month.”)
- Learning to enjoy the security that comes with a life-long commitment
- A trip to Dalat and an Easy Rider day trip
- Realizing that when you’re married (and not flying four-day trips) it’s impossible to hide your crazy from your spouse
- Being the most white-trash-looking couple in Asia with Jonathan’s big, bad mustache and my yellow hair
- A rainy trip to quiet Con Dao Island
- Paying off all of our debt
- Eighteen house guests in six months
- Learning to live together and still give each other space
- Four trips to Phu Quoc Island – beaches, pepper farms, dirt roads, a miserable squid fishing trip, and airplane watching
- Thanksgiving in Thailand with the Trivetts
- Having my head buzzed in Thailand by a she-male (what lady boys become when they get old)
- My motorbike wreck (and a shoulder that still hurts 9 months later)
- Dragging two of our best friends to Vietnam to live with us
- Christmas in hot, sunny Saigon (and our mule, Jamie, bringing gifts from afar)
- Sunrise, sunset, and several days in between at Angkor Wat
- Watching Auburn win the BCS Championship at 8:30am
- Having our own motorbike and the freedom it brings
- Jonathan’s fun home science experiments
- Grace’s 30th birthday
- Experiencing our first Tet (Vietnamese new year)
- The acquisition of motorbike licenses (and me overcoming my fear of driving)
- Jonathan learning that it’s okay to get your hands dirty when you eat
- The Worst. Idea. Ever, Part 2 in Buon Ma Thuot
- Becoming an intern and being published in AsiaLife
- Enjoying Saigon’s phenomenal rainstorms/white outs. Even getting stuck in a few on the motorbike
- Weeks of bronchitis and miserable sickness
- Days in Mui Ne when we feared the beach would be washed away
- A broken coffee press (we have a solid steel spare now)
- Touring the Mekong Delta by boat
- Kuala Lumpur and Langkawi with Jonathan’s parents
- A visit to Jonathan’s cousins in Hong Kong
- Finding a tailor and having Joy’s wedding dress made in Vietnam
- Multiple trips involving weeks of separation as we cross the pond for training, Michal’s graduation, and Joy’s wedding
- A trip to Nha Trang for mud baths, beaches, great seafood, and snorkeling
- Pounds and pounds and pounds of Starbucks coffee (thanks, Peter)
Like I said, it’s been a great year. I can hardly wait to see what the next one has in store.
To all of you who have been married forever, is the first year really the hardest? To all of you, what’s your advice for making sure things just keep getting better?
Tamarind crabs: a saucy, Saigon surprise
Tuesday night, following a tip from a colleague and Tanya’s steady prodding, we saddled up our motorbikes and headed off into the great Saigon unknown searching for tamarind crabs. Armed only with some sketchy Google maps directions, we set off in rush hour traffic. We were looking for an alley in a part of town that none of us were familiar with. We realized that this could be an exercise in futility – we may never find it, it could have closed down, or worse, the crabs may be gross. Since I hardly even know what tamarind is, I was mostly going for the food adventure.
Forty-five minutes and a few detours later, we turned onto Phó Cơ Điều in District 5 and immediately saw it. We were expecting an alley restaurant, but it seems they’ve expanded. Before long, we were sitting at a table with a lady looking expectantly at us. Other than beer (which is pre-chilled – no big chunks of ice in our beer tonight), we weren’t really sure how to order. There weren’t any menus.
Not knowing what else to do, I went out front to the “kitchen”, which was a man standing next to a huge pan, and pointed at a crate of crabs. I wanted to know how many we should order for six people, but the only thing I got was a price – 200,000VND ($10) per crab – which seemed pretty high. I returned to the table to report on my mission and was met by five equally clueless faces. We figured, we’ve come this far, might as well. Bring us six crabs, please.
From there on, none of us looked back. And if we did, it was only to ask for more baguettes to soak up the insane deliciousness that the tamarind sauce was.
Our crabs came out on a huge platter. They were straight out of the pan and far too hot to touch. The sauce was thick and dark with whole garlic cloves and tamarind seeds in it. There were also crunchy bits of something that this blog post confirms as pork. (Next time I will observe the chef.) The table became silent as we set to work.
I’ve eaten enough crabs in Asia to be somewhat wary of them. In China, I was encouraged to eat the orange gushy stuff in the middle of its body. I don’t like having to work around lungs and entrails. And I don’t like fighting with a whole crab for a few slivers of meat. But these were perfect. Far more spectacular than I could have ever imagined. I don’t know the proper crab-eating description of it, but the crabs were broken open so there were just twelve sets of legs. Most of the shell could be broken with your hands or teeth – each break rewarding us with a tasty piece of meat.
(Look how shiny my thumbnail is 
)
And the sauce… oh, the sauce. I wanted to bottle what was left in the bottom of the platter to take home. It was all over our hands, faces, and I’m pretty sure someone went home with it in their hair. Thankfully, instead of the usual packaged towelette, this restaurant provides actual fabric towels – already dampened in plastic wrappers.
As we left, it started raining so we joined the ranks of Saigonians and put on our goofy ponchos. It’s nights like that – bellies full of amazing food, driving in the (light) rain, chatting with our friends at the intersections – when I really love living here. I told Jonathan our children will never believe we were this cool.
If you’re in Saigon and interested, it’s called Quan Ba Chi Cua Rang Me. The address is 13 or 15 Phó Cơ Điều, Ward 12, District 5, HCMC. I’ve only been able to find it once on google maps, and even now can’t get it to search for it again, but it’s at the south end of the street, where Phó Cơ Điều runs into Phạm Hữu Chí. It’s a couple blocks from the Cho Ray Hospital. Happy eating!
The color of miscommunication
Last week, when I got a mani/pedi, I was feeling adventurous and chose a dark purple color. After they put both coats on, it started to look more black than purple, but it was a really nice paint job. I kind of liked it.
Jonathan, on the other hand, thought I looked like a death rocker. I kept trying under different types of light to prove that it was in fact purple, but eventually I couldn’t even convince myself. My nails were black.
Yesterday, I decided to get rid of the color, and after taking the polish off my nails, I realized it was too much of a chore. The color wasn’t in any hurry to leave. Remembering where I live, I decided to let a professional do it.
Tanya and I went to a spa where you can get a pedicure for $3 and color for another $4. Since I’d already taken my nail polish off, I figured I’d just get my toes done. They took Tanya away to wash her feet, and while I was waiting, I changed my mind. I’d rather just get them to change the paint on my fingers and toes – them being freshly groomed and all. I told the lady in charge my decision.
When we went to the room, they didn’t ask me to choose a color. Instead, we were instructed to lie on tables where they put warm, scented covers on our eyes. It was relaxing, and Tanya and I started chatting. She just came back from Bali, and I had just returned from the States. I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on except to occasionally think how thorough the lady was buffing and scrubbing. My fingers, even though they didn’t have any color on them, got the same amount of attention. Eventually, I could tell that Tanya was almost finished, and was a little concerned because I still didn’t have any color on my nails.
A few minutes later she sat me up and started rubbing my shoulders. As I looked at my bare nails, wondering what was going on, she said she was finished.
Hmmm….
This is not the first time I’ve been confused in a spa.
My nails looked really nice though. Very clean and very shiny.
Before we paid our bill, we sat drinking hot tea, puzzling over what had just happened – or not happened. I didn’t want to complain because my nails looked great, but I had to know why they weren’t painted. When the lady in charge came over, I showed her my nails. When she nodded at them, agreeing with the nice job, I said, “I don’t understand why there isn’t any color.”
She said, “You ask for nail polishing.”
“Yes, I wanted nail polish.” *Hand motion for painting nails.*
“No, you say polish-ING.”
Hmmm…. My nails are polished. Polished like a cadet’s dress shoes. I can nearly see my fuzzy head in them.
I tried to explain that in America we call nail color “nail polish”, but then realized there wasn’t any point in arguing those over those three service-changing letters. I threw in the white flag of misunderstanding yet again. The lady in charge didn’t care, and I wasn’t going to ask the other lady to paint over her last hour’s work.
So, next time you’re in a spa, if you want color be sure to specify that you want nail color – not nail polish or polish-ING.
On the up side, my friend Kari, who does not like to put chemicals on her nails, is very excited that she can now get her nails looking so nice without a drop of polish.
Dear jet lag, I hate you.
I just got back to Vietnam. I was in the States for almost three weeks for one of my younger sister’s wedding. I did the same trip in May and when I returned last time I was introduced to a member of the Jet Lag family that I had never met in all my years of travel.
I left New York on Wednesday and arrived in Saigon on Friday morning. It’s already a long trip, but I fly standby part of the way so it’s even longer. I knew I would be exhausted when I got here, so I told myself I could have the weekend off from life, but come Monday, I better get going again. I love going to the States, but find that it’s really difficult to maintain any sort of productivity in writing or exercise while traveling. I came back with projects to start and weight to lose.
I was sleeping through the night from the start, but could never really seem to wake up. When Monday came around, I was still struggling to keep my eyes open all day. I was trying to reconnect with people, but all I could think was “I’d rather be sleeping.” I would sit down intending to write and end up eating instead. I wanted to exercise but couldn’t drag myself out of my apartment. I couldn’t focus long enough to write. I felt lazy. I was disappointed in myself for being unproductive. So, I got depressed.
About halfway through the week, I talked to my older brother who has been living in China for almost five years. I was complaining about how I felt. What was wrong with me? Why can’t I motivate myself to do the things I know will make me feel better? He informed me that I was suffering from jet lag.
“But, Israel, I’ve done this so many times before.”
Then I started to think about the different trips and the circumstances surrounding them. I usually traveled east – South Africa, Europe, Dubai. Or, when I was traveling west, I was going somewhere exciting. I was moving to a new country with my new husband. Crossing the street was challenging. The people were fascinating. Every meal was an adventure. I was tired a lot – and depressed some, but I thought it was just from being stuck in a hotel all day. From having my entire life turned upside down.
Returning to Vietnam in May really surprised me, because in my mind I was looking forward to coming back. Right now, this is my home. My husband lives here, and we have a place together here. My routines and responsibilities are here. I have friends here.
But, after a few days, I couldn’t remember any other reason why I wanted to come back. I had forgotten what it was like to be stared at ALL the time.
“Yes, I look weird. No, I don’t have very much hair. I’m tall. I dress funny. Do you want to take a picture? Why don’t you go get your friend so both of you can take a picture?”
It wasn’t amusing anymore. It was irritating. Beyond irritating. A trip to the Metro nearly put me over the edge. It was hard to decide whether to cry or to rage. I could’ve squashed someone. Things that intrigued me nine months ago were driving me insane.
Between my brother and other friends here who had recently returned from the States, I found out this was normal. I wasn’t losing my mind. Vietnam was not a bad place. I just had to get over my jet lag and readjust to the culture.
Now, I’m coming to Vietnam for the third time. I was angry before I even got off the plane. The usual staring, shoving, and general lack of respect for personal space made it worse. But this time, I know better than to give myself three days to readjust. I also know that it’s okay to stay in my apartment until I feel ready to face life here. I bleached all 3mm of my hair before I left so I’m even more of a spectacle now. I started thinking about hats and other head covering options today. Maybe I’ll just stay home until it grows out.
I know there are many things that I love about living here; things about the people and culture that I really enjoy. But, I’m going to give myself a little more time before I dive full force back into them.
I’m curious why I’ve never experienced jet lag like this before. Is east-west jet lag somehow worse than west-east? If so, why? I was told today that if you faint you can re-set your body clock… I’d love to hear from those of you who travel and deal with these time/culture adjustments.
Currently reading: The Help by Kathryn Stockett
The days of our Saigon lives
Whether I blog or not, life here in Saigon keeps going. I have so many things I want to post about – trips, cooking, pottery class, getting pulled over by a cop. I’m working on the stories and photos they each deserve, but in the meantime, I still want to keep you informed on our lives here.
As always, I am, of all people, most blessed.
I started an internship with AsiaLife magazine in February. They have been teaching and publishing me ever since then. I’ve had a lot of different assignments each month: writing about different streets here in Saigon – finding things that are of interest to expats, editing press releases and announcements – learning to be concise, and writing the Imbibe column which required an interview – something I’ve never done before, and writing book and movie reviews.
In April, I was given a part in a feature story. Through a translator, I interviewed a Vietnamese man whose job has been to open graves and move bodies for 48 years. In May, I wrote a piece about a day I spent in New York City with Christine. My editors had me come up with ideas for articles and now two of them will be published next month. I’m still trying to figure out the best way to share these pieces with those of you who don’t have access to the magazine.
This month, I was invited to a Journalism Day (who knew there was such a thing) celebration at one of the local wine shops. They gave us each a bottle of wine as a gift. It was great to meet other writers who live here, and fun to be recognized as a journalist. I’ve also had several blog posts published in a magazine in China, the Ningbo Guide, thanks to my big brother, and have recently started working with another magazine based in Hanoi that found my blog.
This is why I haven’t been blogging much. I’m trying to improve though.
In the meantime, I’m learning to fearlessly drive the motorbike. I wear dresses and flip-flops while driving, and, yesterday, I went 50kph! I tackled the steep slope into the parking garage at the magazine office, but still find the process of getting on and off sidewalks and getting in and out of “parking spaces” to be extremely difficult. When I start to feel foolish for all the effort these things take (I consider it amusement for the men who guard the bikes), I have to remind myself how far I’ve come in a few months. I will always be proud of myself for learning to drive in Saigon without fear. Tension maybe, but no longer fear.
Our first good rain came sometime in March. I didn’t want to admit how much I was longing for the it, since I was afraid that once it started it would never stop. But, it does. It generally rains hard every day, but the storms rarely last more than an hour. The storms move incredibly fast – for better or for worse. I know it rains all day in some parts of Vietnam, but I don’t think it happens here. I love the rain. A few weeks ago, I got caught for the first time in a big storm on the motorbike. I managed to get my good shoes off and under the seat and put the poncho on before I was soaked. The rest of the ride home, as I sat at lights watching the water run off my elbows, I had to smile. I really live in Saigon!
The storms here are amazing. From our twenty-fifth floor apartment, we can see them coming from miles away. Across the horizon there can be a rainbow, gray sky, a storm, blue sky, another storm and a semi-sunset all at once. The Saigon sky is a whole other post I want to write. It changes constantly, and now, with the rain, we have a chance for blue skies on a regular basis. Sometimes, it is even cool (high 70s) after it rains. For those of you who don’t know, it never gets cold in Saigon. The two times I’ve gotten goosebumps here were wind-induced. It’s seems to be breezy to windy here year-round, but I think it helps with the pollution.
Besides motorbikes, rain, and writing, I’ve started my Vietnamese lessons again, and I’m learning to cook Vietnamese food. We found a company that would normally come to your house and cook for you, but they’ve agreed to take me to the alley market to shop for food, then come back to the apartment and let me cook with them. Our cook’s name is Xuan (Swan) and, in spite of the fact that we speak very little of each other’s language, we have a good time.
We went to Nha Trang last weekend with some friends. There we saw what is, so far, the most beautiful beach in Vietnam, and one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen. It was a great trip, and the story will be published in the Hanoi magazine. Jonathan has been working from 1pm to 11pm most days that he works which has helped us get into a bit of a routine. It’s something that I need. I go to yoga and body toning class at the gym and am learning that exercise is necessary for my sanity. I also took a pottery class one Sunday with some new, Christian friends. It was great to be doing something artistic and meeting other people who love God.
Otherwise, I’m preparing to go home again, but this time for my sister Joy’s wedding. We took a risk and had her wedding dress made here – copied from two of her dresses – and that has been another interesting adventure. It is one step away from completion and is beautiful. I’m flying standby so I don’t know exactly when I’ll get to Atlanta, but hopefully it will be around the middle of next week. Before I go, I have an interview, a restaurant review, and a spa review. Yay!
Thanks for reading and for your encouraging, interesting comments. Let me know if you have questions. I am getting to the point where I forget how unusual certain parts of life are, so thinking about it from your perspective gives me fresh eyes for it.
Like this:
I’m not saying your baby stinks, but…
Does your baby suffer from bad body odor? Is he self-conscious in social situations, afraid his smell will bother others? Is your baby’s B.O. preventing her from reaching her full baby potential? Does the smell of baby make you want to spit up? If so, there is hope for both of you.
The other day, we went to the Metro. While waiting in the checkout line, I was browsing the display stand making sure there wasn’t anything I couldn’t live without. This stand happened to be selling Johnson & Johnson baby products.
In case you can’t read it, it’s baby cologne.
This led to the following conversation:
Grace: “Baby cologne? WTF, mate? I didn’t know babies needed cologne.”
Jonathan: “Yeah, I thought babies already had some special smell.”
Grace: “They do, my dear. They do.”
Instead of Eau de Baby, here are the delightful flavors you can choose from:
Morning Dew – Be warned, it’s caffeinated and your child’s first words may be “Do the Dew!”
Summer Swing – Is that a rope swing, tire swing, wooden swing, or plastic swing? A baby swing with cracker crumbs and old spit-up in it?
Powder Mist – Just in case there aren’t enough powder scented baby products out there already.
Spring Bouquet – Comes with Claritin for those of you with allergies.
Tropical Burst – Is that a burst of mosquito repellent or the burst that happens when you slap a mosquito that’s been sucking your blood?
I know Asian and Western tastes vary greatly when it comes to flavors and scents, but I was always under the impression that Westerners were the ones with the tendency to overdo the body scents. I even read in “The Lotus Eaters” about ambushes being sabotaged because the Vietnamese could smell the soap the American soldiers used to bathe. (They started covering themselves in fish sauce before going on missions.) When applying perfume, I have always tried to respect the fact, or what I assumed to be fact, that Asians prefer less scents.
In the land of fish sauce and durian, how can anyone not like the way babies smell? Can someone please explain why there is a market for baby cologne? Is this sold in Western countries?
