Come Here, Hold Out Your Hand

Ok, pretend I'm walking up to you right now, and I am holding my hands out like I have something in them. Something I don't want to get away, but neither is it something I particularly want to hold too close to me. "Hey, come here!" I call out. "Hold out your hands!" So what is your reaction in this instance?

Clearly a sane person would run far and fast. That is, in fact, what I would do if I were you, cause if I know me, I'd be trying to give you something cool, but still creepy. Well, I'd be wrong to do so, at least right now. Know why? Come here, I'll show you.

Ready?



Is this not the cutest little thing you've ever seen?



(Many thanks to Gregorio, my hand model, who did indeed approach me just as I described above. I ran.)

Welcome to the Elf Palace

As promised, my poppets, some pictures of my perfect wonderful delightful extraordinary Elf Palace. Let's pretend you just knocked on my door. (knock, knock, knock) Why, hello, blog! How nice to see you. Come right on in, why don't you? Oh, thanks, I just finished setting things up. I still have a few more things to do, like pick up my plants from the babysitters, but for the most part, this is it.

So here's the living area/kitchen/dining room/closet room. With the exception of the kitchen table and the blue folding chair (classy!), the furniture is all old AmazingPants family stuff. The coffee table there, for example, is my grandfather's old Navy sea chest.



The sofa is from my parents' old living room set, and although the leather is cracked and the seats are falling through, man is that old thing comfortable. The lamp on the side table is part of a set that was a wedding gift to my parents when they sealed the deal back in '75.



The yellow corduroy chair dates way back in my mother's family. She sat on the arm of it next to her grandmother and watched news of the Cuban Missile Crisis unfold back in 1962, but I think it had a considerable history even before that. Then Captain Mommypants and Superdad took them (there used to be two) when they bought their first house, and it was the Time Out Chair when Umulu and I were misbehaving. Last year I grew roots in Old Corduroy while I studied for my comps. I love that chair.



Off to my right here, right through that door you can see in the pictures above, is the bathroom and laundry, which is chiquitito, but just perfect.



And up the stairs into the loft... ta-daaaaaa!! My favorite reading chair, vintage AmazingPants family heirloom, circa 1989. And check out those nook beds! Anybody want to have a slumber party?



And a desk, where I, er... um.... well. It's where I certainly have plans to work, at the very least.



So there you have it, blog. See why I call it the Elf Palace? It is both elfin and palatial, and I am the luckiest son-of-a-gun on the planet. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to nesting.

Unintended Consequences of Being the First-Born.

Ok, I am fully aware that one day my little brother Bug might kill me for posting this picture, and furthermore, I am aware that any jury of his peers would fully acquit him of all wrongdoing, but seriously. I'm jealous enough when I consider that he's got fun fluffy dogs to play with, a farm to run around on, woods to explore, a river to splash around in and the undivided attention and unconditional love of both of our parents and four older siblings. But this is taking things too far.



I'm fully aware that my childhood was also completely awesome, but when Superdad sent me this picture over email the other day I had an overwhelming urge to ask for a do-over.

It's Elf Palace, And All's Well.

Oh my goodness I love my new home. It's tiny, it's cute, it's perfect. It's an elf palace. Tonight I was at a party of congenial folk. We were laughing, drinking, eating, being generally amiable and fun, when all of the sudden I thought, "Oh! I could be in my home right now!" And so, on a Friday night, I left a wonderful little party to come home to my Elf Palace. I brewed myself a pot of tea, set some delicious strawberries in a teeny-tiny bowl, put on a Norah Jones album, and settled into my favorite chair for some high quality me time. It's about 10:30 now, and I'm about half-way through a perfectly frivolous novel. The breeze blowing through the windows just turned a little cool, so I put a cozy blanket on my lap. It smells like the cedar chest I've had it stored in for the past year. In a little while I will snuggle up in my nook bed and rest my head on my favorite soft pillow. I will go to sleep and dream, and when I wake in the morning I will lie there quietly for a moment, just letting it soak in that yes, this really is my home, and no, I'm not going to wake up in Nicaragua, only to realize it was all a cruel trick of my imagination. All is well in my Elf Palace.

A Nobel Prize in Making Me Feel Like A Princess

Dear Jim and Doc,

I am just a random grad student and blogger, and have very little clout in this world. Nobody knows my name, and even those who know it rarely manage to pronounce it properly. I have no money, no assets, no fame, and no political power, and I tell you what: that is a crying shame. Because you know what I'd do if I had any of that money and power and fame? I'd give you both a Nobel Prize. Not for peace, not for amazing and important scientific contributions to the world, not for any of those things that people with money and fame and power routinely award people prizes for. No, instead I'd award you a Nobel Prize for Making Me Feel Like a Princess. I'd arrange an award ceremony in which Salma Hayek, Sophia Loren, and Marilyn Monroe all magically appear in the prime of their youth and voluptuous bounty to hand you each a golden statue of indeterminate design. Photographers would take your picture and crowds would ooh and ahh, everyone wishing they were your friend too, so they could just stand near you and absorb some of the hallucinogenic glow of your dazzling personalities. And when reporters asked you just exactly what you had done do deserve such glory, such acclaim, such fanfare, you would simply smile modestly and tell a story that goes like this.

"Well," you'd begin, "there's this girl named Cheasty." Reporters would scribble madly in their notebooks, and ask each other how to spell Cheasty. "Somehow during our time in Nicaragua, the three of us became good buddies, you see, and when we realized that Cheasty was about to leave us, we decided to throw her a little special shindig, a last hurrah to send her off properly."

At that point the reporters would be distracted because a door would suddenly gust open, almost by magic, as if invisible fairies had swung them wide. The air would begin to shimmer and sparkle, and a collective gasp would arise from the gathered throng as none other than I, the dazzling and gorgeous diamond-studded Amazing Cheastypants, waltzed into the room, followed closely by my acres and acres of shiny beautiful bouncy hair. "Oh, Amazing Cheastypants!" my adoring public would clamor. "Tell us the story in your own words. How did Doc and Jim make you feel like a princess?" I would laugh, an intoxicating sound, by all accounts, and fill them in on what was one of the most wonderful days of my life.

"Well," I began in a breathy and sexy voice, "it was simply marvelous. And the best part was that I had no idea it was coming! I'd phoned Doc and Jim to let them know I was coming to León, and I'd made plans to stay at La Perla, my favorite hotel in the whole wide world, and I'd mentioned that it might be fun to go to the beach, but whatever, maybe just we could have dinner together before I left Nicaragua forever? Well, they went so far beyond themselves that I am still practically speechless. First of all, when I arrived at the hotel there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for me with a sweet note from Jim and Doc, telling me how much they'd miss me. The first flowers any man, or in this case men, have ever given me, if you can believe that. And when I checked in to my hotel room I found that Jim had booked me not just in any old little room, but in the Presidential Suite with private balcony! Gasps, shivers, oh how wonderful it was! I could go into poetic turns about how lovely, how elegant, how completely delicious this room is, but that's boring to read. Treat yourself to a weekend at the Perla and go check it out yourself.

"So I'm not really sure that words can capture the wonderfulness of the rest of that day, honestly," I'd say to the assembled paparazzi, while you two guys stood modestly by. "It wasn't just what they arranged for us to do, but the special touches they put on everything. We went to the beach, but not just to the beach, to the private beach house of a friend of Jim's, with a swimming pool and sea kayaks, and the most comfortable and amazing lounging chairs in the history of the universe. Doc and I braved the wild blue Pacific surf to paddle out on the ocean in the kayaks and spent lovely hours under the sun, riding the swell, dangling our feet in the water, and surfing the waves on our way back in. We had roasted chicken and rum and coke, and swam in the pool and played a hotly contested game of Trivial Pursuit, which I was lucky enough to win due to the sheer accident of having read an article the week before about knife making. What's the common name for a ferrous alloy with a minimum of 10% chromium content by mass? Stainless steel, thank you very much. Hooray! We laughed, we cried, it was better than Cats. And as the sun started to set we packed stuff up and headed back to town, where I soaked in a hot bath (ooooooh, shivers of delight), napped like a pasha, and generally wallowed in the voluminous folds of my super-awesome complimentary terrycloth bathrobe in the air conditioning. There was room service dinner on my private balcony, good conversation, and the generally warm feeling of being among people who care for you and will miss you when you're gone. In short, I felt like a princess."

And then the paparazzi, sated with news and pushed to make their deadlines, would disperse into the night and the three of us would be standing there, and I'd give you both the biggest hug a girl can give, and I'd say, "Thank you, Jim. Thank you, Doc. You gave me a day to remember, a day that for the rest of my life will make me feel special and cared for and loved, and I'll never forget it. You are princes among men, and even as I sit here in the States in a cool and climate controlled room with a glass of lovely red wine at my side, I am nostalgic for the good times we had. I will miss you so much, and anxiously await the day when our paths cross again."

Be well and stay safe, my friends. You are ever in my thoughts.

Love,
Cheasty

Brief Update

I'm home, extremely exhausted, and I'm going on a camping trip tomorrow. I'll write more when i get back next week. Lots to talk about. Too much, really, which makes it hard to decide on a topic. I'll talk to you all soon.

Love,
Cheasty

I'm Meeellllllttttiiiiinnnnnggggg...

Oh sweet lord, it's so hot you could fry an egg on my forehead. In fact, you could fry an egg on my forehead while I'm standing up, that's how hot it is, cause if you threw a handful of raw egg at my face it would just sort of flash-cook and stick to the surface, like, POW! Cooked egg. I spent most of yesterday in a small room with a tin roof and limited ventilation. By the time it was over I'd sweated so much that I think I lost 50% of my body weight and, oh, more or less 90% of my soul in water weight. Thankfully, once the sun set, a light breeze picked up, and I spent the rest of the evening under the mango tree in a rocking chair, dodging falling fruit, fanning myself madly with a newspaper, and trying to rehydrate.

I know once I'm back in the States I'll probably bitch about how people over air condition buildings and gah, I shouldn't have to bring a sweater to work in the summer, but right now I'd kill for a little air conditioning. As it is, I'm practically glued to the fan in my room. If I get any closer I'll risk losing fingers, or worse, my whole face.

Other than the heat, which I know I'll get used to, life is good. I found some great information in the archive I worked in yesterday, and guess what, I have one more, count it, ONE MORE interview to do this afternoon, and then wa-la! I'll be done with my work in Nicaragua, having accumulated thousands of pages of documents and 76 interviews. Whew! I'm heading out to Leon tomorrow to pick up some stuff I left there, mail a painting I bought for my mom, and to stay at my favorite hotel for one night of pampering and bliss. Ooh, AC, hot water, and a bathtub!! Cable TV and rum and coke! Ooh la la! I'm looking forward to a nice dinner with Jim and the Doc, and then it'll be back here, throw some stuff in my suitcase, and head out to el aeropuerto to catch the 1 a.m. flight back to the Yooosa.

I'll post an update Tuesday or Wednesday, but until then, hasta luego. Smoochies!

Things I Will Miss About Nicaragua

In my ever-growing frenzy of anticipation for getting home and being done with this siberian death-march of a research trip, I feel that I might be doing a disservice to the very wonderful country that has been my home court since last August. So while the next few days might be dominated with thoughts of RED WINE!! HOT SHOWERS!!! WASHING MACHINE!! DRYER!! CAR!!!!! MY OWN HOME!!!!! FAMILY!!! FRIENDS!!!!! MY BIKE!!!, I would like to pause for a moment to talk about the things I will miss in Nicaragua. Well, to be more specific, the things I will miss in Matagalpa, for, having arrived here yesterday, I find my distaste for Managua unchanged, though I do like the family I stay with here, and having wireless internet at home. But that doesn't make me love the city any more, especially when the headlines of yesterday's paper read: "Violent crime in Managua up 47% in 2008." Sheesh. Glad I was here to witness most of that historic year.

The rest of Nicaragua, however, really is something special, so today I'm writing about the things I will remember fondly when I'm back home and settled in in Texas.

1. The number one thing I'll miss, without a doubt, will be the fruit and vegetable vendors. In most towns in Nicaragua the fruit sellers set up on street corners, where they hawk tables full of oranges, papaya, watermelon, mango, jocote, cantaloupe, and bananas. The vegetable vendors, on the other hand, walk the streets with little wooden push wagons, pausing every few meters to sing out the produce they've got on hand. Potatoes, tomatoes, onions, carrots, cabbage, peppers! And oh my goodness it's all so fresh and delicious and CHEAP! I made a huge vegetable curry the other day. I filled a big bag full of veggies, and I mean it was FULL, and the whole kit and caboodle cost me $2.50. Genius!

2. Baseball. Well I've already told you how much I love the baseball games here, but since that recent post I've gone again, this time to a Matagalpa v. Rivas game. This was big time, Nicaragua's version of the major leagues, and while I didn't think it was possible, this game was even more entertaining. You want to know why? It was awesome: the Rivas team brought brujos (witches) with them! The Rivas region has some towns that are pretty famous for brujería, so I guess for good luck, some of them travel with the team. There were about three or four of them, and they walked around the stadium waving mango leaves, rattling shells, chanting incantations and whoa, Nelly, did the Matagalpinos get steaming mad! "Hey, egg-sucker," one of them screamed, "aquí nos cortamos café, no mangos!", which literally means, "here we harvest coffee, not mangoes," which only makes sense in light of the fact that the Matagalpan region is an economic powerhouse (coffee) while Rivas is traditionally much poorer. Thus, "cutting mangos" was code for "we've got money, and you don't." Well the crowd picked that up, chanting it, and needless to say, there were fights. Altogether, it was one of the more entertaining games I've ever seen.

3. I'll miss the way people sit around in their doorways, just checking out the action. It's a small city, everybody knows everybody else, and in the evening folks just hang out. I love it, especially in contrast to the way we all live in our closed-up little boxes in the States. I mean for God's sake, I lived in Austin for 3 years in two different houses, and in neither case did I even know my next-door neighbors' names. In two months in Matagalpa I knew not just their names, but also their life histories, medical maladies, and the whereabouts of all their children.

4. The efficient (if grotesquely uncomfortable) bus system. True, it has caused me much pain and aggravation, but honestly? For a poor country, it is ridiculously easy to move around in Nicaragua. Sure the buses are crappy, uncomfortable, hot, and usually overcrowded, but when it comes right down to it, if I needed to go to some distant city, I could get there that same day. Without a car, that's just impossible in the States.

5. Telenovelas. Latino soap operas are an art form. Let me be clear: they are painfully melodramatic, unrelieved by bursts of humor to alleviate the strain of watching lovers torn asunder, families split by jealousy, murder, deception, and intrigue. I can only watch them in small doses, really, but oh, those small doses are wonderful. My favorite novela right now is called "Sin Senos No Hay Paraíso," ("Without Breasts There Is No Paradise") a Colombian soap about women who get breast implants, but they are deceived by wicked men who don't give them silicone implants, but implants of COCAINE!! Then the women are sent to Mexico for some bizarre drug exchange, etc, etc. Basically, it's a lot of greasy looking guys and dumb broads with huge breasts bouncing around the television screen being alternately stupid and creepy in nice cars, mansions, and at the beach. My favorite parts are where the creepy looking guys make the dumb broads with huge breasts frolic in the water while they sit and ogle them, mostly because, without intending to, it ends up looking like an intentional parody of a basic porn motif. But it is neither intentional, nor a parody. It's just bad acting, bad script-writing, and I love it! In Matagalpa I always watched it with the grandmother in my house. She loved it too, but for a very different reason: whereas I thought of it as just a horrid form of poorly-done titillation, she sees the whole thing as a cautionary moral tale. "See," she explained to me, "This show teaches young women that they can't trust strange men!"

6. Random church processions in the street. Not much more to say, I just like them.

7. Piropos. I hate to admit it, but part of me thinks I might miss it when nobody calls out to me how beautiful I am, or what lovely eyes I have, or whatever other little compliment men toss off to women passing by on the street. I know they can get annoying, and sometimes they can be crass or rude, but honestly. What's wrong with having somebody tell you they think you're the cat's meow every now and then? Yes, I might miss that.

Ok, I could go on, but I think that's a good summary of my favorite things about Nicaragua. I'm off to the Cuban embassy now, to see if I can look at their archives from the 1980s. Wish me luck!

The Father of My Future Children

Ladies and gentlemen, today I have a special present for you. I know that normally I try to keep my love life private, but today I am just too happy to keep this to myself. You want to know why, don´t you. Well okay, then, I´ll tell you. Today, after waiting and searching and dreaming for 31 years for the man of my dreams to appear and sweep me off my feet, it is done. My heart, once mine to give freely, has been permanantly taken off the market. It now belongs to this guy: the father of my future children. Check out this video and tell me you aren´t going to fight me for him. He drives me crrrrrrrrraaaaazzzzyyyyyy!!

¡A Mi Me Gusta el Beisbol!

So despite Latin America's well-deserved reputation as a land of soccer fanatics, Nicaragua is a whole other ball of wax. Here, while soccer is understandably popular, the King of Sports is none other than good old-fashioned American Baseball, thanks to an early-20th century invasion by the U.S. Marines. While Nicaraguans aggressively opposed the American occupation of their nation, they fell in love with baseball and never stopped loving it. Yesterday was a lazy Sunday, and for once, I didn't have a whole lot going on. I suppose I could have sequestered myself in my room and spent many painstaking hours transcribing interviews, but frankly, I'm sick of it, and I needed a break. So I walked out on the street and asked around. Anything cool going on today in town? Why, yes, exclaimed a chatty vegetable salesman. Over at the stadium they're having the Departmental playoffs for the Liga Campesina ("Peasant League") and today Matagalpa is playing San Ramon. Lovely! I thought. I always enjoy a good baseball game, so I trotted over to the stadium, bought my ticket, and plopped myself down on the worn wooden bleachers.

Oh, my goodness. I love Nicaraguan baseball. First of all, let's get the idea of a Peasant League straight. These guys might live in poor little houses, have only basic levels of education, but holy shit do they take their baseball seriously. Their uniforms are spiffy and gleaming and ironed fresh, and out on the field they play with all the intensity of major leaguers. Nothing breaks their focus, and that in and of itself is astonishing, considering the absolute anarchy that rules outside the baselines. I've seen some crazy crowds in my life, and that baseball stadium outstripped them all. First of all, I was the only, I repeat THE ONLY woman in the whole place, though I doubt that was normal, really. And second of all, those guys were crazy. The announcer was seriously annoying, so a bunch of guys started shouting him down with wisecracks and insults, which he naturally had to respond to, and it all degenerated into a commentary that went kind of like this:

Announcer: "Cabrera, the left-handed pitcher, just swung and missed. Now he'll try again."
Wiseguys: "No, shit, you idiot, we have eyes too. Why don't you put your mother on the microphone!"
Announcer: "Special alert for the assholes along the third-base line, Cabrera swings again, and another strike, your mothers told my mother that you have small penises."
Wiseguys: "That's not what your wife said last night!"
Announcer: "My wife, a hit! Cabrera got a hit, it's a single, he'll stay at first, my wife, you little pubic hairs, knows better than to trade a stud like me for a little pubic hair like yourself."

You'd think that the announcers and the crowd might get tired of all this, but no. It went on for innings, getting progressively more ridiculous, the whole stadium laughing along. To add to the mayhem, a bunch of small boys loitering outside the stadium had rigged a rudimentary catapult out in the streets, and every time a foul ball landed outside the stadium (quite frequently) just a few minutes later it'd come hurtling back onto the field with frightening force, once nearly clocking the pitcher upside the head.

The game, which had been stalled for a while at 6-2 got more exciting when San Ramon scored 4 runs in the sixth inning, tying it up at 6, and then the whole place was on its feet. All the energy the crowd had previously devoted to cheerful insults was now focused so hard on the field their eyes bugged out of their heads. "No, not the lefty, you idiot coach! Run, run, run! Stop, stop, stop! Replace the umpire, he's a drooling moron!" They were on their feet, veins bulging in their foreheads, standing at the fence and gripping the chicken-wire for all they were worth. Matagalpa finally pulled it out in the 9th inning and took it away from San Ramon 7-6. All was well with the world, and men who only moments before had looked dangerously close to apoplexy clapped each other on the shoulders and moseyed their way on home.

It was, for me, a wonderful day. A baseball game, a melty ice cream cone, a bright sun, a cool breeze, and a scene like the one in that stadium. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Dial... Up.... So..... Slow....

Hey folks, just a brief note from the campo of Nicaragua, where the internet is painfully slow, the people are friendly as heck, and the views go on for miles. I don´t have much time, as the day is packed with interviews (including one with a chocolatier who looks like a melting hershey´s kiss, no joke. where´s my camera when I need it?!).

So here´s a fun snapshot of my day. I was on the bus this morning, bouncing through the countryside and I noticed a woman standing in the aisle next to me, heavily pregnant. Here in Nicaragua it´s pretty common to see people wearing t-shirts with unintentionally ironic messages and pictures printed on them, but this might be the funniest one yet. She must have been 8 or 9 months pregnant, potentially with triplets. Or a cow. She was huge. And her t-shirt, stretched tiiiiiight across her belly, read, ¨Population Control.¨ I almost died laughing on the inside.

All right, no posting until Sunday or Monday. This dial-up is painful, so I´ll update again once I´m back in Matagalpa. Adios, mis petunias!

Nineteen days. NINETEEN DAYS?!?!!

BEWARE: With apologies to those readers who prefer jolly stories, this post is about my research process. Read on forewarned!

Oh, lordy, how in the world did this happen? I've only got 19 days left until I leave Nicaragua. Now don't get me wrong. I'm desperately happy to go back home, to have a hot water shower, to eat sushi, hug my sister, drink wine with my friends, sit in a comfortable easy chair, and dance to the rollicking tunes of a Texas honky-tonk band. But I'm also not ready to be done here yet. I know it's good to go home. I have somewhere between 50 and 60 interviews to re-listen to, a mountain of books and documents to read over, and this is a necessary stop in the dissertation process. Pausing to think and process and discuss with advisors and colleagues is something I need desperately, but still... Argh! I've finally broken through that big uh-oh moment I had a few weeks ago, and I'm on a roll here!

I've been cruising along with this research project, meeting people, interviewing people, asking questions, reading background information, and things have been going well. I'm working hard, collecting anywhere from 5 to 10 interviews a week, which is a pretty healthy clip, especially considering the legwork a girl's got to do in order to get even one interview lined up. I do laps of this city on foot, I phone people I've never met, who've never heard of me, and introduce myself, explain my project. I knock on doors, I smile big and friendly, I give out business cards like they're candy on Halloween. I sit around and wait for people to show up. I visit reluctant interviewees five or six time, trying to make friends. I buy people cups of coffee and lunch. I climb up into the slums on the city outskirts and pick my way around piles of donkey poo and through scurrying herds of chickens, giving the slightly feral dogs a wide berth. Yet for all this work, it never feels enough.

I panic that I haven't interviewed enough people, that I don't have enough interviews with nurses. (Shit. Note to self. Find more nurses.) Damn, it's hard to find anti-Sandinista doctors who will speak from any place but a deeply entrenched distaste for any and all FSLN social programs. I toy with different ways to ask the same question. I probe deeper to find the root of whatever resistance I encounter, often encountering only stiffer resistance. I listen to horrific stories of death and suffering in one interview, and in another the person I'm interviewing will flatly balk at giving me any personal anecdotes whatsoever. My mind is whirl of potential theoretical and interpretive frameworks. I long for my library at home, currently packed into boxes in a storage unit. When a people's memory of a period in time is scarred by trauma (terror, starvation, upheaval, loss, frustrated hopes and desires) how in the world can my questions about the health care program be answered in any sense outside of a post-traumatic reflex? What does this mean, in a larger sense, for my project?

Ok, deep breaths. The good news is that I'm once again truly engaged with this project. It is a new way for me to think about health care, but it's also fascinating glimpse into the murky world of historical memory, and I can't wait to dig a little deeper. So okay. Nineteen days. I've got some good interviews lined up, some short side-trips to nearby towns in the municipality to collect a few more interviews, and then home. And it will be enough, at least for now.

Night of Drag Queens: Pictures!! Also, More Things.

Ok, for those who requested them, here they are: pictures from the 2009 Miss Gay Matagalpa Beauty Pageant. Apologies for the fuzziness, but it's awful hard to take pictures in the dark. Sadly, some of the best moments didn't come out at all, nor could I get close-ups of some of the more egregious examples of boy-that-looks-hotter-than-angelina-jolie, or boy-that-looks-like-linebacker-in-a-dress, etc. And trust me, not being able to see pictures of those chicks is just about the worst thing that's going to happen to you today.



M'er F'er, I can't get any other pictures to load of the beauty pageant.

In other random news, a German tourist wearing a fanny pack, a mosquito-repelling-hat-with-net, quick-dry pants, and black socks under Teva sandals just walked into the bar I'm at right now. Oh, goodness, this is too funny for words. I heart stereotypes.

Also, for your delectation and enjoyment, some pictures of the group that went out this weekend. The two gringos are the medical doctors I met in Mulukuku, the small town I went to last week to collect some interviews. And you know what's really cool and coincidental? That handsome bearded blond fellow, the one that's doing his best to look almost unbearably creepy right there, is none other than my good friend Mutt's brother, Gregorio! What a freakin' teeny tiny little world we live in. About two weeks ago Mutt wrote me: "hey cheasty, guess what, i just learned that my brother is in this little town in Nicaragua called Mulukuku. I don't know if that's anywhere near you, but just in case, I thought I'd let you know." And of course I almost died of surprised and delighted shock, since I was getting to head right to that teensy tinsy little itty bitty town myself in just a few days. When last I'd seen Gregorio we'd been matched up on a bocce ball team that decimated the competition at a family picnic last spring. With such a glorious history between us, who wouldn't want to be reunited in the Nicaraguan campo? He and his colleague Emilia were working at the health cooperative up there, and we had a blast the whole time I was there, and then again when they stopped by Matagalpa on their way out of the country this past weekend.



M'er F'er, I can't get any other pictures to load of the big group of us. Effing internet sucks.

And lastly in my string of random things, oh my goodness, I have caught some kind of parasite or something. Lindsey the Hairwrecker (go read: she's hilarious) is going to be jealous as hell, in the midst of all the exercising and dieting, because, baby, this is the way to lose weight fast. It's not fun, but when everything you put in your mouth races out the other end 19 minutes later, the pounds just melt away. Sadly, you also feel sort of saggy and tired and malnourished all the time, but as my grandmother once said, "Dahling, one must suffer to be beautiful."

All right, I have lost my will to battle spotty internet for the time being. As it is, I'm running dangerously close to getting deleted in another one of the perpetual rolling power outages up here. Adios, hasta luego!

Oh, It Was Fun. Really, Really Fun!

So here in Nicaragua my life is more like that of an old retired lady than I'm generally comfortable with. Most nights I'm in bed by 9, easy. Lights out by 9:30. It's not that I don't go have a drink with friends, eat out, have a nice evening here and there. But honestly? The number of times I've had lights out by even 8:00pm is a little embarrassing. Regardless of how healthy, wealthy and wise that's supposed to make me, I'm frankly just a little too young to be all tucked in by sundown, night after night, with a cup of chamomile tea and a Louisa May Alcott novel. Yet such is my life right now.

Thus, it is with some relish that I report to you, my precious posies, that your Amazing Cheastypants had one hell of a fun time this weekend. Some American medical doctors I met in Mulukuku were in town here in Matagalpa, several of my favorite Nica chicas all happened to be around and eager to go out, and WHOOSH! Off went the old maid's cap. SWAP! Down with the Victorian literature! ZWOOM! On with my one set of cute clothes, and WA-HOOOOOO! Out the door. It's been a while since I've sparkled and bounced and left glittery dust in the air as I walked through a room, but my acres and acres of gorgeous beautiful bouncy hair did not let me down. I was a princess! No, a party animal. No, a princess. A princessy party animal! We dined out and told charming stories and made each other laugh till we cried. We drank wine (WINE!) and burbled over with happiness. We flitted about town on a cloud of glamour and joy, stopping for drinks here, for a little more gracious living over there. And then, as the evening's crowning achievement, one of my friends said, "So, does anybody want to go over to the drag queen show?"

It was one of those moments that makes you shake your head like a wet dog and ask that the person who spoke repeat the question. Drag queen show? Wait a second. Where am I? I'm in Nicaragua, right? A drag queen show in Nicaragua? Oh, holy shit, you couldn't keep me away with heavy chains and handcuffs, even if you cast a magic spell of unbreakability upon them. This, I have GOT to see.

So off we went, and I'll try and update with some pictures once I load them up, but this was one of the more amazing things I've seen here. It turned out to be not just a drag queen show, but an actual beauty pageant. Miss Gay Matagalpa, 2009, and the joint was PACKED. Homosexuality isn't exactly what you'd call accepted here, generally speaking, so to see these queens dressed to the nines, made up like beauty contestants, and to watch them walk the catwalk, to watch Nicaraguan men whistling and catcalling and cheering them on... Well. It was just grand, and the after party wasn't bad either. We danced our little socks off, buoyed up by the general cloud of goodwill that permeated the event, and when at last I collapsed in my bed at the outrageously late hour of ONE-THIRTY A.M. (!!!) I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face and the thought that this had been a very very good day. Such a good day that it sort of made up for the fact that I'll be in bed by 9:00 again tonight, and that I'm actually kind of anxious to find out what happens with Jo and Laurie. Not to mention Meg and John Booth. Ooh, the drama!

Thoughts on a Chicken Bus

How many times have I done this bouncy painful travel thing in Nicaragua? Countless times, I think. And each time it starts the same. I board a gaily colored chicken bus in good spirits. I try to find a seat, if any are available, and settle in for the ride. I smile at my neighbors, I relax into the bumps and jolts of the bad bad roads. I and my fellow travelers cavort and bounce throughout the brightly colored, rolling landscape for the next several hours. Often we move in slow motion, which provides ample opportunity for gazing out the window, studying the countryside and the towns we pass through. I am occasionally charmed, sometimes I learn something, sometimes I see something sad.

Each time we pause, women in aprons swarm the bus, selling ice cold sodas (ice cold! ha!), chicken, fried pork intestines and cole slaw, water, corn on the cob, you name it. A young, conservatively dressed man stands up from his seat and, perspiring madly from his rigidly buttoned clothing, begins to exhort on-board sinners to repent and be saved lest the eternal hellfires feed themselves on our ill-behaved bodies. The guy behind me (the one with the chicken) starts to sing a praise hymn. It's hard to hear him over the loud pop or religious pop music blaring from the bus speakers. The guy next to me gets corn stuck between his teeth and starts picking with his nails and spitting on the back of the seat in front of us. Most of the pieces land in my lap. He appears not to notice my dirty looks. More and more people pile on, and a girl behind me, sitting on her mother's lap, jabs her elbow in my neck. Corn spitting man falls asleep (HOW?!) and starts to lean on my shoulder. So many people get on the bus, more than seems possible, that before I know it I am in a life-or-death battle to guard not just that amorphous sense of "personal space," but the actual space that my body occupies. If I give in, I will end in a pitiful crying bleeding lump on the bus floor, cuddled up with all the discarded corn cobs and styrofoam plates that smell of fried pork intestines.

The bouncing of the bus becomes not just an inconvenience, but actually painful. The thinly padded seats beat a tattoo onto my sits bones that will leave bruises, and I start to count to 60 over and over and over again, trying to take life one minute at a time. Turns out there's an awful lot of minutes in 3 or 5 hours, and this enrages me. By the time we are 45 minutes overdue for our arrival and still bouncing through the countryside with no town in sight, I am ready to tear the beating wings off of butterflies. I would drop kick a bunny rabbit, scare a baby, fart in public, scream senseless absurdities with my hands slapped over my ears. I would slap the evangelical preacher across the face and spew vile curse words at the dirty kid whose grubby mitts keep pinching the hairs on the back of my neck when he grabs the back of my seat. WHY, OH GOD, WHY DIDN'T I RENT A FREAKING CAR!???

When we finally arrive, however, I am so thrilled, so absolutely delighted to be off the bus that I positively beam upon the world. I am a beatific, I smile, I radiate happiness. I bounce off the bus on spring-loaded moonboots, I wink at taxi cab drivers, cheerfully insult the bus lot attendants when they ask me to come home with them. I go home, take a shower, scrub the dust out of my ears and hair, and sigh in a satisfied manner. See? That wasn't so bad, was it. And look at all the money I saved!!

For The Fairy King and Millions More

I got an email the other day from my fanastic brother The Fairy King. ¨Hey, sis,¨ he said. ¨I was fiddling around on YouTube the other day and I found this video. It was very moving to me (for obvious reasons, which will be revealed when you watch said video) and i was thinking that maybe you might be able to work a blog post around it or something, help get it out there and everything.... Thanks!! Love you, and hope i talk to you soon! Your fiendishly slavishly loving adoring brother, The Fairy King."

With pleasure, my dear. With pleasure.

The following video is moving; I definitely misted up, and I hope you can take a moment to watch this, send it along to a friend, do something to spread familiarity, affection, and care for the thousands of people whose lives are affected by Prop 8 movements out in California. To sum up for those unaware of what's going on here, California legalized same-sex marriage a year or so ago, and thousands of people rushed to the altar to cement what were for many of them relationships of very long standing. Conservative elements, however, were less-than-pleased and put a proposition on the ballot last November (Prop 8) that would reverse the legalization of gay marriage. It passed, and it is now once more illegal for homosexual couples to marry in California. Ken Starr, that morally upright bastion of American culture, is now lobbying to have all the marriages celebrated before Prop 8 passed be automatically "divorced" by the state of California.

You know, I've got a lot of dreams about what kind of world I'd like to live in. Some are big ones (peace, an end to domestic violence, adequate health care for all), and some are small (enough bees to make honey, a perfect blend in quantities of ice cream to topping in every pint of ice cream, a resurgence of the great American Chestnut tree). One of the changes I hope to see, one of the changes that will very directly impact people I love more than anything, is to arrive at a place where discussions about whether loving gay couples deserve the same rights as heterosexual couples sound not only antiquated, but also asinine. The Fairy King and Sweet Baby Face are closing in on 10 years together. They own a home, they pay their taxes, they work hard on keeping their relationship strong and stable, and they love each other deeply. Yet they are not allowed to stand up before God and family and the U.S. government and cement that relationship, to offer each other the legal protections any heterosexual couple is allowed. I, on the other hand, by the simple expedient of preferring the opposite sex, could get married tomorrow to a man I met today, divorce him the next day, and marry somebody else next Tuesday. Something is deeply wrong with a system that would not allow my brother and his partner to get married, but would buy me a blender and new silverware for doing the deed with a guy I barely know, and I hope that one day that changes. Please watch the video. And if you're sufficiently moved, click here, and this link will take you to a petition you can sign to defeat the movement to divorce gay couples in California.

National Sister Appreciation Day

I've been feeling the need for some time now to visit Big Bend National Park, one of the most beautiful places in Texas. Granted, that might be sort of like winning the "Prettiest Girl in the Room Full of Only Moderately Attractive Females" contest, but still. Sorry, Texas lovers, but I'm just being honest here. Texas is a lot of things, but gorgeous is not one of them, so when gorgeousness raises its head, I figure it's worth checking out. But I don't want to go alone, I want company. But who? I called up my sister Umulu the other day and mentioned that there were a few empty days between when I get back to the States and when I can move myself into the Elf Palace. Days in which it might be a good time to go check out Big Bend? Bracing myself for an immediate no ("Camping? With you? Are you nuts?"), I floated the idea to Umulu, being careful to include key words like "car camping" and "rum" and "marshmellows," and to my absolute surprise, shock, and delight, she was immediately enthused. "Sure! I can take those days off! I'll put it on my schedule right now!" Oh, I am so happy! After an episode in our shared history that Umulu still refers to as "The Nazi Death March Across Patagonia," I wasn't counting any chickens before they hatched. But it turns out that she's either a) forgotten, or b) forgiven me for the leaky tent, gale-force winds, and insufficient food stores of 2003. I'm going to Big Bend, and I'm going with my sister! Hooray!

In honor of this momentous moment, I would like to declare today, Monday, February 23 the First Annual National Sister Appreciation Day. Because without sisters, I would only have brothers. Because without my sisters, I wouldn't be half the person I am today. Because without sisters, I still wouldn't know how to apply mascara or use a blow dryer. Because without my wise and intelligent sisters, who else would tell me when I was being an ass? Who else would let me know when the guy I'm dating is insufficiently awesome for me? Who else would forgive me for Nazi Death Marches Through Patagonia and bravely sally forth once more?

Umulu and I have a favorite song. Anybody else out there a classic movie fan? Here's "our song" from the wonderful (read: cheesy and terrible and wonderful) Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera Ellen movie "White Christmas." Most times Umulu and I get drunk together the night ends with a rousing rendition of this fantastic little number.



We love the song so much that this Christmas we were impulse shopping at Target (always a tremendous mistake) and we bought these outfits. Not only because they were onesie pajamas, and not only because they matched and how effing cute are we!!! Also, we bought them because they match the dresses from our song. Yes we are that lame. And yes, we have our eyes peeled for large blue ostrich feather fans.



And for all you men out there who are outraged - "Sisters Day? Sisters?! Well I like that, and what are we, chopped liver?" So for my brothers, who are just as awesome in their own ways as my sisters, here's a special song for you. See? Bing and Danny love sisters, too!



Happy National Sister Appreciation Day, Umulu (and all sisters everywhere). Yes, we do look silly. I hope you forgive me for posting these photos on the internet! Though, knowing you, you're probably more annoyed that I just revealed to the world your secret love for a cheesy musical. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!! No secrets are safe with me!!!

These Are Like Two Of My Favorite Things

There are few things I love more than ice cream. Yummy creamy, full of toppings, delicious ice cream. Oh, num num num. Ben and Jerry´s, come to mama. Interestingly, there are also few things I love more than excellent mockery of our late great president, Mr. George W. Bush. And, what do you know? Today in my inbox I recieved the following, and I am unspeakably delighted. Ice cream flavors that mock George Bush? This is genius!

Ben &Jerry created "Yes Pecan!" ice cream flavor for Obama. They then asked people to fill in the blank to the following:

For George W. Bush, we should create "_________".

Here are some of their favorite responses:

1. Grape Depression
2. Abu Grape
3. Cluster Fudge
4. Nut'n Accomplished
5. Iraqi Road
6. Chock 'n Awe
7. WireTapioca
8. Impeach Cobbler
9. Guantanmallow
10. imPeachmint
11. Good Riddance You Lousy Motherfucker. Swirl
12. Heck of a Job, Brownie!
13. Neocon Politan
14. RockyRoad to Fascism
15. The Reese's-cession
16. Cookie D'oh!
17. The Housing Crunch
18. Nougalar Proliferation
19. Death by Chocolate. and Torture
20. Credit Crunch
21. Country Pumpkin
22. Chunky Monkey in Chief
23. George Bush Doesn't Care About Dark Chocolate
24. WM Delicious
25. Chocolate Chimp
26. Bloody Sundae
27. Caramel Preemptive Stripe
28. I broke the law and am responsible for the deaths of thousands - with nuts.

Honestly, I laughed so hard at so many of these that I´m hard-pressed to pick a personal favorite, though I think 9, 11, and 19 are right up there at the top. So what do you think? Which one wins? Do you have any contributions of your own?

So All That Was To Say...

Well clearly I do not have a budding career in Quarterly Report production. Sad, really, as that was my Plan B. In sum, this is what I meant to communicate yesterday.

A) Life is pretty good. In spite of crazy busy-ness, chronic back pain, cold showers, and having to HAND-WASH MY LAUNDRY (ack! noooooo!!!) I´m still having fun. When I´m not running about madly, recording device in hand, I have been hanging out with Dutch people, of whom there are an inordinate amount in Nicaragua, and no, I do not know why, but yes, it´s a little odd. Also, I´ve been spending a lot of time with a very nice 76 year old woman who is currently my housemate. She came down here to study Spanish for a month, and her rigorous study habits make a joke of my academic ambitions.

B) Um... what came next? Oh, yeah. Travel. Well in keeping with my inability to stay in one place longer than a few weeks, it´s once again time for me to be off. On Monday I leave for a town called Mulukukú, some 7 hours by bus into the mountains from Matagalpa (ow, it hurts). I´ll be there for a while, then back in Matagalpa for the weekend, and then I take off the following Tuesday for another town, this time La Dahlia, where I´ll stay for about 4 or 5 days to collect some interviews there, as well. After that, I might chill in Matagalpa for a week, but then again, I also have to go to Jinotega, Matagalpa´s near neighbor and friendly rival city. At the end of all this I´ll only have a week and change to hang out and get my last minute work done before heading back to the good ol´USA. I feel pleased with this schedule, though I will be glad when I never again have to get on another Nicaraguan chicken bus to bounce over horrible roads for hours at a time on uncomfortable, overcrowded seats. I imagine there is internet out there in the campo, but i´m not making any promises as to how frequently I can update. Of course, every time I´ve said that in the past I´ve ended up with buckets of free time and posted like mad, so who knows...

C) I´ve had some fun too. A weekend at the Laguna de Apoyo with my friend Lolita, from Austin. It was wonderful. And in between trips to Mulukukú and La Dahlia, Doc, my (ahem!) will be up here for a couple of days to hang out. Hooray! Fun!

OK, I think that was all, and really who cares, but still. For those who do care, there you have it. The broad details of my current life plans. Now I´ll post something that´s actually interesting.

Comprehensive Quarterly Report, Numero Uno

All right, so this isn´t really a comprehensive quarterly update, but what the hell. I´ve got quarterly updates on the mind since I listened to a This American Life podcast in which a gay couple produced business-style Quarterly Reports on Status of Relationship With Significant Other in an attempt to stave off unpredictable emotional breakdowns when one member of the parternship was dissatisfied with the relationship. Their conclusion was that it was an ineffective coping mechanism. Nonetheless, I am delighted by this idea, and am trying to figure out how I might appropriate it for my own life. Suggestions are welcome.

So here is my first ever Comprehensive Quarterly Report, though I predict that future Quarterly Reports will be neither Quarterly nor Comprehensive (discuss). In the style of businessy-like documents, of which I have read precious few in my lifetime, I will use small words where big ones are needed, and big words where small ones would suffice. Also, I will attempt to refer to things that are really obviously named by obtuse verbage. Or nounage, as the case may be. For example, in lieu of saying ¨I,¨ I will instead refer to myself as ¨the product.¨ Also, should I break this thing down into sections? Subheadings? Addenda? Who knows what surprises the future will bring... This Comprehensive Quarterly Report is my oyster.

Section the First: General Assessment of Product Popularity

The product, while subject to standard market fluctuations, remains relatively stable, in that consumers continue to value the product, as evidenced by loving family unit, and effuse communique from the product´s youngest sibling of the female persuasion, currently in Australia. Significantly, the product continues to reach new markets, as evidenced by current product pairing with very nice 76 year old woman, who is currently housed in the same storage unit. We, the directorate, also see new opportunities for expansion in expatriate communities of Dutch citizens, as the product seems to be an especial hit with this demographic, particularly when the product is paired with an alcoholic beverage, particularly beer and rum. As the Dutch demographic abounds in Nicaragua, the directorate sees ample room for the product´s expansion.

Section the Second: Professional Development

The product experienced a brief crisis earlier this quarter when discovery was made of a potential patent violation vis-a-vis production of the product´s dissertation. The management managed to avoid crisis however, by expert application of a team of highly specialized consultants, none of whom were paid a nominal fee, as such work in this field is typically performed pro-bono. At time of publication, the product was happily working away on said dissertation, confident that though the way remain murkily lit, it was lit nonetheless, and the product felt confident of eventual arrival at professional destination.

Section the Second: Expanding Markets

The product is currently set to launch in new markets this coming week. On Monday, our directorate will launch the product in a small town called Mulukukú, a 7 hour bus-ride from the product´s current base in Matagalpa. The product will attempt professional development in said location, and report back to HQ upon completion of one week in new market. The product is quite well-disposed to begin work in this area. Upon completion of one week in Mulukukú, the product will once again breach new ground, this time in a town called La Dahlia. The directorate feels comfortable that ample groundwork has been laid in both locations for the product to land comfortably on its feet, and access these new markets with some degree of facility. The last new market to be accessed in the coming quarter is a city called Jinotega, a city that has a somewhat competitive relationship with Matagalpa such that some of our marketing consultants have compared it to a ¨red-headed stepchild.¨ We at the directorate anxiously await news of what that might actually mean. In sum, the product will be traveling extensively in this mountainous region over the next few weeks. All told, the product will withdraw from Nicaragua on March 24, a mere month away, more or less, making the product realize just exactly how badly she needs to ¨ponerse las pilas.¨ (put in her batteries)

Section the Fourth: Upcoming Company Events

All work and no play makes the product a dull girl, thus the directorate has in the past made serious efforts to enliven the social calendar for our product and product affiliates. Reports of the last Company Picnic, held last weekend at the Laguna de Apoyo, are replete with tales of relaxation, swimming, and fun with an affliate company, Lolita of Austin. Additionally, in between marketing incursions in Mulukukú and La Dahlia, we will hold a joint corporate retreat here in Matagalpa with a company called Doc of León, and all reports are that both the product and Doc are looking foward to said corporate retreat. Due to budget cuts, and in light of the economic crisis, the directorate has summarily jettisoned ideas to fly Doc in on a private jet. Other than these two retreats, however, the product is dedicated solely to her professional development, so it´s a good think she enjoys her work. (Author´s note: have I crossed the line from illogical to unitelligible? Have I spelled unintelligible incorrectly?)

Conclusion: A Conclusion

All in all, it´s been a good little while up here in Matagalpa, and while I´m looking forward to my upcoming travels, I am DESPERATELY happy to know that in just a little over a month, I´ll be on my way back home. Of course, once I get there I´ll hit the road almost immediately again, but still. It´s symbolic, I guess. Hot water and washing machines... mmmm. The very thought makes me weak at the knees.

It's Gonna Be A Bright, Bright, Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day

I can see clearly now, the pain is gone.
All of those bad headaches will go away.
The eye doctor said I needed help to read,
It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright sunshiny day.
It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright sunshiny day.



I look all around, it's nothing but a clear page.
I look all around, it's nothing but a clear page!



I can see clearly now, these glasses rock,
And I look dead sexy in these frames
They were so cheap I didn't even cry.
It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright sunshiny day.
It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright sunshiny day.

Please, God, Let THIS One Work!

Hi, hello, and I´m very sorry to have left you in the lurch! This week has been epic. Rolling power outages at outrageously inconvenient times, and upwards of 7 and 8 interviews a day. I´m working like a dog and am completely exhausted by the end of the day. The power keeps going out at weird times and i´ve had TWO blog posts disappear in a puff of smoke, which is SUCH a bummer. But onward and upward, and so on. Last night I couldn´t sleep because the family next door was having some sort of wild drama and the woman in the house, who by the quality of her lungs i´m guessing is kind of young, was shrieking like a fucking banshee. No words, just the same sort of sound you would make if you stuck your face in a bear trap and then had to cut your head off to escape. She did it for at least 40 minutes, pausing only to draw breath and, in doing so, infuse my bruised soul with the futile hope that this time it might be over.

My back has been spasming up, too, which TOTALLY sucks and it hurts hurts hurts, but hopefully by sunday my endless days of interviews will be wrapping up at least for a day and then i can lie down on a block of ice and OD on muscle relaxants and painkillers, both of which you can buy in startling quantities and strength over the counter here.

The good news is that in a flash of startling brilliance, I think I´ve figured out a way to resolve my current dissertation dilemma that hopefully does not involve another extended research trip in Nicaragua, nor does it mandate faking my own death to collect the insurance and live a life on the lam, unable to face the humiliation of *almost* doing a PhD. Still in nascent stages, but I´m working on it, and that alone is a tremendous relief.

I am completely convinced that the power will go out and I´ll lose this post, too, in 5, 4, 3, 2....

Sorry! Be Back Soon!

The power has been out for the past several days. It's just now back on, but I'm completely slammed with interviews and running around to plan an upcoming trip to a delightfully-named little town called Mulukuku. I promise I'll be back soon with stories, updates and all sorts of good fun. Just don't desert me in the interim!

A Vast Conspiracy of Epic Proportions

That´s it, it´s official. Somewhere out there, somebody is out to get me. As I discussed last year right around March Madness, I am a Carolina Basketball fan. A drooling, slobbering, fanatically devoted fan. Don´t overestimate me, now. I am in no way a sophisticated fan. I can´t identify a travel if it hits me between the eyes, and 90% of the gestures made by the referees go right over my head. I never know who fouled whom, and I´m never sure how people know whether you get one foul shot, or one and one, or two. Basically, I just cheer when my team is ahead and bellow when they´re down, and every now and then I memorize a fun fact or smart comment to repeat to whomever I meet, as in, ¨Boy, Ellington´s having a great year, isn´t he? He´s come a long way since last season.¨ I´m not proud, but it´s true, and it´s who I am.

Last night was one of only a few truly critical games in my life as a grossly under-informed UNC Tarheel Fan. See, there´s this smelly awful stinky little team called Duke just about 8 miles down the road from Carolina, and every year we play each other twice, once at home in the Dean Dome, once at Duke in Cameron Indoor Stadium. Maybe you´ve heard of this rivalry? It´s fantastic. These games are nothing short of electrifying. Why, even if you hated sports categorically, you´d have to be half dead not to get a thrill out of a UNC-Duke game. So last night was the first UNC-Duke game of 2009, at Cameron Stadium. While it´s always a pleasure to beat Duke, to do so at Cameron is a particularly luscious pleasure, and last night I thought we stood a pretty good chance of winning.

I looked online. What channel would broadcast the match, I wondered. Why, it´s ESPN! Hooray! We have ESPN on the cable network down here in Nicaragua! All I have to do is find a place with cable TV, and wa-la! I can watch a UNC-Duke game down here in Matagalpa! Oh joy, oh bliss! I trotted over to a local sports bar the day before the game to make sure they´d be willing to show the game for me, and the very nice gentleman bartender told me no problem, they´d be happy to. Oh, huzzah! I´m walking on sunshine!

Yesterday, the day of the game, I organized my life just so, everything in order, all loose ends tied up so that at 8pm I could be sitting in the sports bar, beer in hand, ready to cheer my brave boys on to victory over the hated dookies. I wrapped up my interviews, put away my books. I joined some friends for dinner, but didn´t dawdle afterwards. At 7:45 I strolled over to the sportsbar. By 7:55 I had a good seat right in front of the television and my beer was on its way. And then, at 7:59pm, the power went out in Matagalpa.

Why, God. Why. Don´t you care at all about my happiness? Today I looked online and not only did we win, but we absolutely slaughtered Duke. Vanquished them, left them weeping in small puddles on the court floor. Do you know how often that happens? ALMOST NEVER!!! Sure, we win. This in fact, was our FOURTH consecutive victory over the Blue Devils, and we beat them 101-87!! One hundred and one! The Dookies haven´t given up that many points in nine years, and the last time we had a Duke-UNC game in tripe digits was the 1995 game we won in double overtime, 102-100. (Yes, I just got that off the internet, but I do remember that game.) To have missed this game wasn´t just a bummer, it was primordially insulting. So to whomever it is out there fucking with me, this is your 30 second warning. Show yourself and fight like a man, you lilly-livered, yellow-bellied, floor-licking coward. I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS ANY MORE!!!

The Dissertation Scoop

OK, here´s a little more detailed account of my current problem. This book I found is essentially one version of what I was planning to write as my dissertation. It varies structurally, but in terms of the information I was planning to discuss, it´s all there. It´s a public health study, which is good for me, cause I´ll be studying this from an historical perspective, which in academia is substantially different, but this still poses a significant set-back for me.

So I´m not a total idiot, it wasn´t like I just didn´t know this book existed before I started. I´d found a copy of his early manuscript and read it, but this book was initially published in 1985, which is 6 years prior to the end of the period I am studying. Clearly, this early version was more of an aid than a hindrance to my study. So that was the version I read, the 1985 version. Having read it and made notes, I went ahead and purchased the book online to have as a reference. I picked the book up when I was back in the States last month, and now here in Matagalpa I started re-reading it just to refresh my mind about some of the early MINSA (Ministry of Health) policy adjustments. That was when I realized that the authors had re-published, having done additional research, in 1992, and that was the version I purchased, unknowingly, online. This version of the book was much better, more complete, and they had also done some oral history interviews, which sort of steals my thunder as well, since that´s a large part of my research.

So this is totally my fault, just sloppy preliminary work on my part. I should´ve looked much more carefully into this book and potential re-publishings, and I´m kicking myself hard in the face (which, while difficult, I´ve discovered is entirely possible) for not seeing this coming. Argh.

Nonetheless, I know I can work around this, I can re-direct and do additional research, pose new and interesting questions. I feel a little cut off from my support network of super-intelligent history collaborators back home in Austin. (Drea, Spaceman Spiff, Mutt, Penata, Scrubs, Books, where are you when I need you?!) I´m well into an oral history project up here, and I really feel like I just want to slam on the brakes to re-think this for a while, discover which re-directs I want to take, which new angles I want to explore. Not feasible, however, so I guess I´m just going to keep going, and see what I see. All is not lost, I just feel flummoxed and frustrated and a little like a little kid playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Lucky for me I´ve been feeling so absolutely chipper lately, as I feel like in spite of all the metaphorical dizziness, I´m taking this pretty much in stride.

Thanks for all your comments yesterday, and I´ll start posting about stuff of more charm, elegance, and sparkle very shortly now. Ta-ta-ta-RAAAAAAAA!

Oh, Sheetballs, Batman.

Dear Dissertation,

First of all, let me say that I'm proud of you, and I think you've accomplished some wonderful things in the past few months. I just wanted you to know that before I give you the following news: you're axed, baby. Fired, canned, disowned, let go, and deep-sixed. Turns out somebody already wrote a book about you, only your silly researcher never found that book until just this month.

Don't fear, Dissertation. I know you won't be unemployed for long. I have convened a special council of advisors, and we are rapidly formulating a re-training program, so hopefully with your newly acquired skills and focus you'll be back to work in no time. I mean, that, I really do. Just consider this a temporary setback. A mini-break, if you will.

Hasta la victoria siempre!

Cheastypants

A Visual Aid: Matagalpa!

You want to know how good life is right now? It's beyond wonderful; it's practically hallucinogenic. It's so good that my friend Doc compared my recent life experiences to the early signs of schizophrenia. I'm going to pretend he was kidding. Sadly, I don't have photographs of the absolutely best things, but here's a couple to at least put you in the right frame of mind.

Last weekend I went hiking with a Dutch woman who also works up here, and oh my sweet lord. To live in a place where I can, in 15 minutes walking, be out of the city and up in the hills... God, I am SO not a city girl. So here's me, up in some of the grasslands above the city. Please ignore the very attractive muffin-top poking over the waistband of my yoga pants. It's just a figment of your imagination, anyway. Are you schizophrenic?



This hiking trip got a little more exciting when we realized that a small yet significant portion of these gorgeous grasslands were on fire. And furthermore, that fire was spreading and would in a matter of minutes be directly in our path. Ah, the joys of trekking about in a place with no forest service rangers! This picture didn't come out too well, mostly because once we'd identified that strange crackling sound and smoky smell we just ran like hell for quite a while, and I took this photo from a safe distance.



See what I brave for you, my poppets? Wild grass fires at high altitude, all to snap a nice picture of the city from up on the surrounding mountains. Well I hope you're satisfied, because I ALMOST DIED, and if that had happened wouldn't you be sad now. [Surgeon General's Warning: Egregious Exaggeration May Be Dangerous To Your Health, But Still Is Damn Good Story-Telling Technique]

So here you have it: my new city, as seen from above.



I'm kind of sad that this is the only picture I have to share with you, as the other night I saw what was, categorically and in no uncertain terms, the most breathtaking sunset-with-double-rainbows I have ever seen in my life. I'd gone up to have dinner with my friend who owns the chocolate factory, El Castillo de Cacao, which sits on a hillside overlooking Matagalpa, to the right in that picture up above. From the turrets above the castle (the factory is built to look like a castle) we stood there drinking beer and watching the sunset. A strong wind blew in at our backs, from the east, and with it came a fine mist of precipitation. As the wind blew the particles of moisture down into the valley they collided with the rays of a setting sun and created a double rainbow that was so clear, so bright, so perfectly arched... Well, it just took my breath away. The sunlight was that perfect goldy-orangey color and the hills upon which Matagalpa lies draped seemed to take on a life of their own, undulating and perfect, and crystal clear.

In a way, I'm actually glad I didn't have my camera because if I had I would've likely wasted that time trying desperately for the perfect shot to capture the moment. In the end, I don't have a picture, but I'll carry this memory with me forever. So there you have it. Matagalpa, my posies.

THIS Is What Makes Me Fear the Dentist

I would like to take my hat off to the lovely, talented, and completely original Prunella de Ville, who just posted the following video over on her blog. I recommend going there as well as watching it here, because her commentary is worth a chuckle or twelve. Also, once you're there do yourself a favor and keep reading, because she's just generally hilarious.

The following home video is of a young boy who's just had oral surgery of some sort, and is SO FUCKING HIGH he's in another stratosphere. I agree with Pru when she said how she loved the part where he says, "Is this real life?" but I would also point out another favorite of mine, which is when he sits up high in his seat and ROARS LIKE A LION. This after claiming that he only had two fingers. No, four. No, two. Either way, enjoy.



For the record, if that were me sitting there stoned off my keister after a trip to the dentist, I would probably be talking about masturbation. And then the video would go up on YouTube and I would die of mortification.

Crasey Turns Twenty-three!

One year ago today, I posted about my little sister Crasey's birthday, so I won't re-hash all the wonderful things I had to say about her right now. If you click on that highlighted text, you can read it for the first time all over again. Happy birthday, Crasey!!! Let me sum up by saying that I luuuuuurve her madly, deeply, and occasionally inexplicably. Also, she is in Australia right now, for which I am about to never forgive her. Apparently SOMEBODY never got the memo about travel in the AmazingPants family. Just for you, Crase, let me sum it all up for you.

Item One: Nobody but ME is allowed to travel.
Item Two: All other members of the AmazingPants family are to remain at home, preferably seated at the kitchen table, waiting for me to come home.
Item Three: If travel must happen, it is to be for periods of time up to, but no longer than, 3 weeks.

Crasey, I hate to tell you this, but you're breaking ALL THREE clauses of the AmazingPants Travel Memo. What are you thinking, disappearing Down Under for a YEAR?! Are you absolutely CRAZY? How am I going to see you when I go home for a visit? How am I going to call you on your cell phone 15 times in a row until you finally answer? Who else will go drunk skinny-dipping with me? WHO?

And now it's your BIRTHDAY, you dumbass, and I can't even call you to yodel the birthday song in your ear, and even though I am usually off-key and a little too loud, I know you love it. And you know what's even WORSE? It's only your-birthday-to-me and your-birthday-to-you for a measly EIGHT HOURS!! Stupid 14 hour time difference, or however much it is.

Here, let me help you out. See, I worked in Sydney, too, and I can sum it all up for you. The Rocks are cool, the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge are prettier from far away than they are up close, the Botanical Gardens are sweet, the bars along Oxford Street rock, Australians are nice, and Aussie Rules Football is one of the coolest sports I've ever watched anybody play. Also, I like Manly Beach better than Bondi, but the cliff walk from Bondi to that town just south is wonderful. So fine, stick around for a few weeks. Meet some people, soak up the sights, and then just come home, ok? Please? Hello?

Oh, fine. Stay. Who cares anyway. Jeez, what's the point of being the big sister if you can't boss anybody around? Am I nothing more than a Crash Test Dummy, sent from God to break in our parents and get wrinkles and gray hair before any of the rest of my siblings? This is so not fair.

All That A Bag Should Be

GE Financial Assurance Bag, can we talk? After 10 years I feel I can say this to you. I love you, GE Financial Assurance Bag, with all my heart and soul, but I think it's time for us to start seeing other people. No, please, don't cry. You know I can't stand it when you cry.

What's that? Remember the good times? Well of course I remember the good times, GE Financial Assurance Bag. Peru was a blast, way back in 1998. That was the first time I really realized how handy and capable you really are. Some people base their attraction to a bag on sheer good looks, but seriously, you know I'm not that shallow. No, what really drew me in was your immense versatility. I mean, just look at you. White canvas, which is handily machine washable, and sporty blue straps. So cute, so handy, so bomb-proof!



As we trotted across the globe together I only became more enamored of your special skills. Remember that one night in Australia? No, don't blush. I'd just never seen a bag fit that much stuff inside it. Yeah, I think that's when I realized that my feelings for you went beyond mere admiration. I began to suspect that I was in love.

What's that? Your single best feature? Oh, well there's no contest, GE Financial Assurance Bag. From the moment my father introduced us over a decade ago, I was most attracted to your zipper. No, I know. Most women love little pockets or leather tassels. What can I say. I'm a substance-over-style kind of gal. If you ask me, every bag should have a handy zipper like this. It is the feature that takes you out of the realm of sturdy and practical (though you do inhabit that world quite ably) and sends you shooting into the stratosphere of Damn Near Perfect.



Oh, come on, bag. Haven't we had this conversation before? No bag is perfect, my darling, but Near Perfect is a pretty good start. No, I will not have this conversation right now. What's that? Oh, you hate the way I wear you like a backpack with one strap over each shoulder? Now there is absolutely no need to take that tone with me. Sometimes it's just easier to wear you that way, that's why. What's that? Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Because SOMETIMES YOUR STUPID SKINNY STRAPS HURT MY SHOULDERS WHEN YOUR'E REALLY HEAVY, OKAY? THAT'S WHY. ARE YOU SATISFIED NOW?

Oh, shit. No, no, please, stop crying. I love you bag, I really do. Look, here, see this picture? Don't we look happy and handsome together? See? No, I know, baby. Yes, I love you too. Here, just look at the picture.



Here, have a tissue, dear. Yes, you're right, we have had a lot of fun in Nicaragua together, that's true. Remember Greece? Oh, that was fun. What's that? Italy? Oh, yeah! Remember that time we were in Napoli and the pizza guy did that crazy stunt with the red wine and then you... yeah, you do remember? God that was fun. I still can't believe you got so clean afterward! I'm glad I have you to reminisce with, GE Financial Assurance Bag. So often you were my only company on the road. I couldn't have asked for a better companion, really.

What other bags? Oh, jeez. Come on, honey. You know those other bags don't mean anything to me. They're just something to, you know, spice up an outfit or something. You're always first in my heart. Yes, I like you better than Olive Green Leather Purse. Yes, and Straw Purse, too, but don't tell Sweet BabyFace and The Fairy King, because Straw Bag was a special gift from them and I don't want to hurt their feelings.

Oh, come on. GE Financial Assurance Bag, you can't keep me on such a tight leash. Yes, you're first in my heart, and I'll take you with me always, everywhere. But you know what they say. If you love something, let it go.

What you do mean, absolute twaddle?! That's not absolute twaddle, that's something very wise I heard once in a movi-- COME BACK IN HERE YOU RIDICULOUS BAG, DON'T YOU WALK OUT ON ME!!!

Ahoy, Matey! Arrrrrrrr.

Matagalpa, while it is all that is fine and good in this world, runs a little short on forms of evening entertainment. Now, don't get me wrong, it isn't completely dead. After all, we have a bar, and that bar is actually pretty awesome, but still. No movie theater, limited live music performances, and whatnot. So you want to know what we do for fun? We hang out with pirates. Yes, it's true. Pirates roam these narrow hilly streets, head bandanas, golden earrings, and parrots on their shoulder. There's even one or two with peg legs. Arrrrrr, matey! Where's my ship, ye scurvy landlubbers?

Ok, I'm totally lying. Did you even suspect? Probably not, since I'm a devilishly good liar. So while I know you would love to believe that real live pirates abound in my wee mountain town, sadly, it's not true, unless you count pirated movie salesmen, which there really are a million of, and THAT is what we do for fun.

You can buy these movies on the street for a dollar, and they are an endless source of amusement for me. If they're good, then yay! You get to watch a good movie. But often the copies are often pretty terrible. Have you seen movies like this before? The ones where they sneak a video camera into a movie theater and film it in the dark? It's a pretty hilarious experience, all told, especially when whoever subtitles the damn things doesn't have an able command of the English language.

Like take the movie Australia, for exampe. In honor of my little sister Crasey, who just up and moved to Australia for the next year, the other night I watched this recent Hugh Jackman (drooooools) and Nicole Kidman (I'd like to move my facial muscles, but they're frozen!) movie. How can I describe what this was like? It was sort of the perfect storm of bad pirated movie flaws. First off, it was filmed in the theater, so I could hear people laughing, coughing, and one guy in front of me kept getting up to use the bathroom. The resolution was so bad that even in the brightly lit scenes it was hard to clearly see anything, and the night time scenes were just a heavily pixelated black screen. Oh! I totally forgot about the subtitles! Whoever did the translations might have been a muppet. Or Dan Quayle, to rehash a joke from the early 90s. They were beyond horrible. Here's an example:

Nicole: What do you think?
Hugh: I couldn't really say.

This is the translation:

Nicole: What do you think?
Hugh: Can I really stay?

Or how about this one:

Barman: Oy, she's a lively filly.

Translation:

Barman: Why's alive a feeling?

If I weren't a native English speaker I would've thought the movie was completely existential.