Good Morning Vietnam! Part I

Blogger seems to be a bit better so I'm going to go ahead and post what I've got so far. Like I said, it's coming in installments.

The first leg of our trip was spent in Ho Chi Minh City. When we arrived at the airport, I was instantly taken back to my childhood -- everything looked as if time had been frozen to the year 1975. I doubt a thing at the airport had changed since the Americans had left. Same conveyor belts, same squirrelly looking tile. It even smelled old. Not rotting or foul, just stale. Like your grandma's bedroom.

Dragging two kids and our luggage, we looked for a sign telling us where to go. And then we found it. "Spiwak, Michael Mr." it read and we knew we'd been found. Our tour guide, Twee, greeted us with a suprising, warm welcome. Suprising not because of its genuine warmth, but because she said, "Welcome to Saigon!" We had it in our heads that this city was now called Ho Chi Minh City. Apparently, no one actually calls it that, except us Americans. Even when the dumb Americans try to get it right, we just get it wrong.

The weather was hot and humid and since we arrived on National Day (the Vietnamese equivalent of Labor Day), our driver had the day off. Twee found us a cab and we piled in and drove to our hotel. The streets were clear, but the sidewalks were nonexistent -- as in there was rubble where there once were sidewalks and remnants of curbs, but no sidewalks at all. It was immediately clear the abject poverty these people live in. I've been to Bangkok. This was worse.

Our hotel was gorgeous, however. We were at the Caravelle, which is directly across from the Opera House. We were told a big celebration and performance was to take place right out in front of the Opera House. As luck would have it, Mike and the kids passed out shortly after dinner and I got to enjoy the show from the comfort of a recliner in our air conditioned room, all by myself. Dragon dancing and pole climbing and other acrobatics, along with fireworks and singing and traditional dance. It was really fantastic.

The next morning, bright and early we met Twee for our trip to the CuChi Tunnels. The drive out was scenic and rural. Exactly how my imagination thought the Vietnamese countryside would look. Rice paddies and water buffalo with peasants in conical hats tending to them both. We drove through tiny towns on their one main road, littered with tiny grocers, dirty children, and old, toothless men. Decorating every storefront, every tin roofed shack, every flag pole was the national flag of Vietnam. The whole country, it seemed, was awash in red cloth with gold stars in celebration of National Day. Patriotism? Obligation? Either way, the people seemed happy and content to enjoy their holiday weekend.

The tunnels were built to house an entire village underground, beneath a US Army camp. The tunnels themselves are tiny. I wish I could post a picture of Mike in one of them, but blogger, for some reason won't allow it. He takes up the entire opening. And these were the tunnels that were widened to accommodate Western tourists. Reilly Kate was the only one brave enough to venture through a tunnel. The government guide scooped her up in his arms and down into the bowels of a Viet Cong headquarters went me wee lass. Needless to say, as her mother, I was terrified. Not only had I just met this man mere minutes before; not only was there a cultural and language barrier; not only was it terrifyingly dark in there... but I was too friggin' big to fit in there and go after her. My BABY was down in a dark tunnel that I couldn't save her from with a complete stranger.

She had a blast. Loved the adventure of it. I aged 15 years and gained a new patch of gray.

Edited to add this picture: Mike actually attempted to go down one of the widened tunnels but only got so far before he started to feel like he was getting stuck. Now, understandably he is a big guy. But seriously, these tunnels, these WIDENED for FAT WHITE DUDE tunnels are flippin' tiny.

Thank God the next stop was food! We were taken to a tent where they served us some hot tea and tapioca root that we then dipped in a mixture of peanuts, salt, and sugar. No one liked it but me. Of course, it probably tasted like shit, but I'm a stress eater and given the stress I had just lived through, I would have eaten a dirty diaper pie if they'd handed one to me. Everyone else was leaving the tent and I was still shoveling in the tapioca root.

Right after this picture was snapped Roman took a big bite and promptly spit it out. Twee was shocked. She said most westerners like it since it tastes so much like potato. I had to explain to her that while my kids look white, they are very much Asian and definitely prefer rice to potatoes. In fact, the only potatoes my kids will touch are chips and fries. Otherwise, give them rice or they will die.

Oh, and just in case my traumatic experience of watching Reilly Kate descend into the pits of hell wasn't enough, she then started a love affair with millipedes as soon as we exited the food tent. Yes, yes. They are harmless, I know. But I've lived in Hawaii too long and those damn things look enough like centipedes to freak me right the fuck out. Not to mention, they aren't as harmless as we might like to believe. I watch Animal Planet. I know. These buggers emit toxic fluids that can be lethal to people with sensitivities to such things. And after handling them, your hands smell like ass for days. I was none too thrilled with her new found pets.

Not to be outdone by his sister, Roman started messing around with great big rocket looking bullet type things that made me want to cry out. Sure, I know they are dead IN THEORY. But for the love of Peet, people! You just cannot trust ammunition to be dead while you yourself are still living! Read the news! Man gives kids 40 mm shell to play with; 2 killed, 5 hurt I read this just days before we left. So when we posed for this picture and my son picked up that great big ammo looking thing, I'm about ready to give birth. Literally. If you can't tell, that's his pacifer in his mouth. Just imagine him in say... 16 years. Same scene, but a smoke dangling from said mouth. Ugh.

After visiting the souvenir stands and buying us each a bottle of snake wine (yes, the kids each had to have their bottles own snake wine), a VC military hat, and a copy of the propaganda video they show at the beginning of the tour, we headed back into Saigon. We went to China town. Apparently, these people are fully assimilated, but yet ethnically Chinese Vietnamese. There was much talk in the tour books about it having a different feel than the rest of Saigon and the people being different, acting different, looking different. I didn't get any of that. It looked really, much the same. The market we visited wasn't too friendly and the kids weren't comfortable since they were the center of attention there. Hence, we didn't stay and shop. We just toured around. The lady in this picture is selling finches for a Buddhist ritual where the worshipper sets the bird free. The little girl was giving me high pressure to buy one of her conical hats for a buck. She was easily distracted, however, by Reilly Kate. She just couldn't take her eyes off of her. She'd lose track of what she was saying and drift off for a few seconds, lost in staring at little white RK. Then she'd snap out of it and hit me up again for a buck. She followed us across the street and stayed with us while we waited for our driver to come back and pick us up. I never did buy one of those hats. I regret that now.

Our driver raced us over to the Lady Thien Hau Temple. It is an ancient Chinese temple, first built in 940 AD, to honor a woman psychic who protected the people of the sea. There are statues to her and every evening, before they shut down the temple, the "put her to sleep" symbolically, but shutting her off with curtains. This temple was very colorful and filled with worshippers. I didn't intend to take a picture of this man while he was in practice, but it turned out that way. The spirals hanging from the ceiling are coils of incense. Even the kids dug this temple as they had a fish pond with a big ass fish. I mean BIG. I don't even know how the thing lives in that little fish pond. Must be the work of her lady of the sea.

After that, Twee dropped us off at a restaurant near our hotel where we ate mediocre Pho (Vietnamese noodle soup) and delicious spring rolls. By the time we got back to relax, we were exhausted and unable to do little more than peel off our sweaty clothes, take the kids for a swim, and collapse from exhaustion.

And that was our just our first full day in Saigon.

Blogger is not cooperating

Yesterday I couldn't upload pictures so I wrote a bit and figured I'd finish it in the evening. I couldn't even access my blog last night. This morning, I'm back to not being able to upload.

I've got to homeschool Reilly Kate this morning (God help me). So I haven't the time to putz with using PhotoBucket. But I will tonight.

Damn it!

Iraq

Computer time has been difficult. I get it here and there during the day, but the kids don't allow me to formulate a complete thought so writing would be impossible. Then in the evenings, I'm usually so wiped out by the homeschooling and the running around from here to there and back again, that I'm in bed shortly after the kids. I have actually sat down several times and blogged about our trip to Vietnam, but quickly ran steam. I can see it coming in several installments. Perhaps as early as my tomorrow morning (Almin comes so I can have an hour of uninterupted thought) which is your this afternoon. I'm a pathetic mess, really. I just don't do pregnancy glamorously nor intelligently. The first to show their suffering are my epidermis and my blog. Sadly.

I read this article yesterday and feel compelled to reprint it here (without permission I might add, but I linked to it). Despite how strongly I feel that we have done the WRONG thing in Iraq, I've tried to convince myself that at least the Iraqi people were better off with Saddam Hussein gone. I was just deluding myself.

God have mercy on us for what we have done. God have mercy.


No One Dares to Help
The wounded die alone on Baghdad's streets. An offer of aid could be your own death sentence, an Iraqi reporter writes.

September 20, 2006


Because this account of daily life in Baghdad reveals where the writer lives, his name is not being used to protect his safety. He is a 54-year-old Iraqi reporter in The Times' Baghdad Bureau.

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BAGHDAD — On a recent Sunday, I was buying groceries in my beloved Amariya neighborhood in western Baghdad when I heard the sound of an AK-47 for about three seconds. It was close but not very close, so I continued shopping.

As I took a right turn on Munadhama Street, I saw a man lying on the ground in a small pool of blood. He wasn't dead.

The idea of stopping to help or to take him to a hospital crossed my mind, but I didn't dare. Cars passed without stopping. Pedestrians and shop owners kept doing what they were doing, pretending nothing had happened.

I was still looking at the wounded man and blaming myself for not stopping to help. Other shoppers peered at him from a distance, sorrowful and compassionate, but did nothing.

I went on to another grocery store, staying for about five minutes while shopping for tomatoes, onions and other vegetables. During that time, the man managed to sit up and wave to passing cars. No one stopped. Then, a white Volkswagen pulled up. A passenger stepped out with a gun, walked steadily to the wounded man and shot him three times. The car took off down a side road and vanished.

No one did anything. No one lifted a finger. The only reaction came from a woman in the grocery store. In a low voice, she said, "My God, bless his soul."

I went home and didn't dare tell my wife. I did not want to frighten her.


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I've lived in my neighborhood for 25 years. My daughters went to kindergarten and elementary school here. I'm a Christian. My neighbors are mostly Sunni Arabs. We had always lived in harmony. Before the U.S.-led invasion, we would visit for tea and a chat. On summer afternoons, we would meet on the corner to joke and talk politics.

It used to be a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood, bustling with commerce and traffic. On the main street, ice cream parlors, hamburger stands and take-away restaurants competed for space. We would rent videos and buy household appliances.

Until 2005, we were mostly unaffected by violence. We would hear shootings and explosions now and again, but compared with other places in Baghdad, it was relatively peaceful.

Then, late in 2005, someone blew up three supermarkets in the area. Shops started closing. Most of the small number of Shiite Muslim families moved out. The commercial street became a ghost road.

On Christmas Day last year, we visited — as always — our local church, St. Thomas, in Mansour. It was half-empty. Some members of the congregation had left the country; others feared coming to church after a series of attacks against Christians.

American troops, who patrol the neighborhood in Humvees, have also become edgy. Get too close, and they'll shoot. A colleague — an interpreter and physician — was shot and killed by soldiers last year on his way home from a shopping trip. He hadn't noticed the Humvees parked on the street.

By early this year, living in my neighborhood had become a nightmare. In addition to anti-American graffiti, there were fliers telling women to wear conservative clothes and to cover their hair. Men were told not to wear shorts or jeans.

For me, as a Christian, it was unacceptable that someone would tell my wife and daughters what to wear. What's the use of freedom if someone is telling you what to wear, how to behave or what to do in your life?

But coming home one day, I saw my wife on the street. I didn't recognize her. She had covered up.


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After the attack on the Shiite shrine of the Golden Dome in Samarra in February, Shiite gunmen tried to raid Sunni mosques in my neighborhood. One night, against the backdrop of heavy shooting, we heard the cleric calling for help through the mosque's loudspeakers. We stayed up all night, listening as they battled for the mosque. It made me feel unsafe. If a Muslim would shoot another Muslim, what would they do to a Christian?

Fear dictates everything we do.

I see my neighbors less and less. When I go out, I say hello and that's it. I fear someone will ask questions about my job working for Americans, which could put me in danger. Even if he had no ill will toward me, he might talk and reveal an identifying detail. We're afraid of an enemy among us. Someone we don't know. It's a cancer.

In March, assassinations started in our neighborhood. Early one evening, I was sitting in my garden with my wife when we heard several gunshots. I rushed to the gate to see what was going on, despite my wife's pleas to stay inside. My neighbors told me that gunmen had dropped three men from a car and shot them in the street before driving off. No one dared approach the victims to find out who they were.

The bodies remained there until the next morning. The police or the American military probably picked them up, but I don't know. They simply disappeared.

The sounds of shootings and explosions are now commonplace. We don't know who is shooting whom, or who has been targeted. We don't know why, and we're afraid to ask or help. We too could get shot. Bringing someone to the hospital or to the police is out of the question. Nobody trusts the police, and nobody wants to answer questions.

I feel sad, bitter and frustrated — sad because a human life is now worth nothing in this country; bitter because people no longer help each other; and frustrated because I can't help either. If I'm targeted one day, I'm sure no one will help me.


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I was very happy when my eldest daughter married an American. First, because there was love between them, but also because she would be able to leave Iraq, and I wouldn't have to worry about her safety day after day. She left last year.

If you had asked me a year ago whether I would consider leaving Iraq, I would have said maybe, but without enthusiasm. Now it's a definite yes. Things are going from bad to worse, and I can't see any light at the end of the tunnel.

Four weeks ago, I came home from work. As I reached my street, I saw a man lying in a pool of blood. Someone had covered him with bits of cardboard. This was the best they could do. No one dared move him.

I drove on.

A sneak peek

No, this isn't the much promised Vietnam post. But it is something BETTER. I've got.....

BABY PICTURES!

We had our ultrasound yesterday and despite the fact that is illegal for the tech to tell what the gender of the baby is, it wasn't hard for us to figure out what we were seeing... or more aptly, what we were not seeing.

But the tech did confirm what we did not see. When asked repeatedly by Mike, she finally responded YOJA (which means "girl" in Korean).

Another girl to complete our family. We are over the moon. This is exactly what we wanted. We've always said we wanted two girls and a boy and would adopt whatever we were missing. Well, the adoption thing isn't to be with me having gotten myself knocked up. I kind of assumed since we strayed from the plan, we'd wound up with another boy (which, as long as he's healthy, would have really been just fine with us). But she's definitely a SHE. Or the most sadly hung little boy I've ever seen.

All these pictures are profiles. The baby's head is on the left, the spine curving to the right and up with her butt sticking straight up in the air. Her legs are at the top of the picture. While in this position, she repeatedly knocked herself in the forehead with her knees. I'm predicting blonde hair.

This too is a profile with the head on the left. The stripes in the middle are her ribs and she's holding up a clenched fist near her face (toward the top of the picture).

Yet another profile picture. The baby is now facing the other direction with the head on the middle right. You can see her nose, pointing straight up and the white lines in her face are her jaw bones.

So there she is. SHE is. Another girl. And then we will be complete.

Rub the Belly

Just a gratuitous belly shot...

20 weeks -- Only half way there. I'm sporting an F cup bra and don't even fit into maternity jeans. How big can I get you ask... just wait and see. You ain't seen nothing yet. I am the woman who gained 90 whopping pounds with first pregnancy. I won't be outdone in my last!

Oh, and some word of mouth warning against the Casio Exlim digital camera. This camera sucks. That's all I've got to say about that. Blurry ass pictures...

Round and Round

I'm working on sorting through the almost 1,000 pictures we took in Vietnam. I'll post them with a write up of our trip later. Probably in a couple installments. Stay tuned.

But I have to post about this conversation I had with a pharmacist at the base hospital. Reilly Kate has yet another UTI and they've had trouble finding a good antibiotic to that the bacteria she has isn't resistant to (don't get me started on my issue with the over use of antibiotics or how they'd like to put my daughter on prophylactic antibiotics which would only increase her immunity to the antibiotics effectiveness -- I hate doctors! But I already covered that. On to our show!). I went on Friday to pick up the new try. Here's a transcript of my conversation with the pharmacist as recorded by my brain (I have almost perfect recall, I swear!).

Pharm: Give every 6 hours.

Me: Yeah, the doctor said four times daily.

Pharm: No, every 6 hours.

Me: My daughter is only four. She sleeps for 12 hours straight at night. Every six hours isn't possible unless I wake her.

Pharm: Yes, wake her. Every 6 hours.

Me: So you want me to wake her in the middle of the night, give her the meds, brush her teeth and you expect that she'll go back to sleep. Do you have children?

Pharm: Yes, every 6 hours.

(At this point she is giggling and smiling a mile wide, toothy grin that makes me want to knock her fucking lights out except that I know it is a Korean reaction to confrontation -- they smile and laugh when faced with disagreement. Well, except North Koreans, they never smile.)

Me: Do you have children? There is no way I'm going to be able to even get this into her in the middle of the night, let alone brush her teeth. And if I was able to wake her enough for that, I'd never get her back down.

Pharm: Brush teeth? Brush teeth? No brush teeth. Just give medicine. Every 6 hours.

(Let me tell you if you don't already know, Koreans are obsessive tooth brushers. Even more so than my dear, dental obsessed friend Kristin who's teeth are so white they glow in the dark. Yes, they carry their tooth brushes and paste everywhere they go. You can't walk into a bathroom at a restaurant without seeing someone in there brushing their teeth post-meal. It's a national craze! They don't, however, use soap to wash their hands. Go figure.)

Me: That medicine is full of sugar right?

(no response)

Me: If it is full of sugar and I just put her back to bed after giving it to her, what do you think will happen to her teeth?

(Oh, and by the way, the water we drink isn't fluoridated either)

Pharm: Only 10 days. Every 6 hours.

Me: I think a dentist might disagree with you.

Pharm: Okay. Every 5 hours, okay.

Me: Well, we'll see. She'll get it four times a day.

Pharm: No, this is an antibiotic and she needs it every 6 hours. Men here in hospital, we wake them and give them medicine and they go back to sleep. All night long, we wake.

Me: My daughter isn't a man. Or even a soldier. She's a 4 year old little girl with an infection who needs her sleep.

Pharm: But anyway, give every 6 hours.

Me: Yes, four times a day.

(Now we are both smiling at one another with a murderous look in our eyes. Very cordial.)

Pharm: Must be taken with food.

Me: Huh? What? (my smile was now gone)

Pharm: It is very important that you give with food. This medicine is very bad for stomach.

Me: Let me get this straight. You want me to wake my daughter up at midnight, feed her, give her this medicine, NOT brush her teeth, then send her off to bed and expect her to sleep and be well rested? Is this what you think is going to happen?

Pharm: (the giggling and smiling had reached comedic proportions at this point) It is important to eat before taking this medicine.

Me: Do you understand what you are saying? I cannot do this!

Pharm: But anyway, every 6 hours.

(Cue in the song Round and Round by Ratt. Anybody remember that one? If you don't, hit the link and scroll down. Amazon offers a sample of it to trigger your memory. If you still don't recall, then... Oh, God, I'm old. )

And that was the end. I couldn't take another second. I grabbed the medication and left, reminded once again why I dislike the entire medical establishment. I felt like I'd just done a verbal gerbil wheel marathon. Who, I ask, is the winner? It certainly isn't Reilly Kate.

Juicy Juicy GI

Mike's been working a normal shift this week so he's been at the computer at night after the kids are in bed (my only blogging time). Hence I haven't posted a thing since we got back. It's fine though, since I've been in bed early and he's retrieved almost all of our vacation photos. All but maybe 100 which is awesome! Gotta love those rescue programs... and a good man to sit down and figure it all out.

So many of you have inquired about the massage parlor incident. It isn't quite as exciting as all that. In fact, I might have misled you by saying I was thrown out. Thrown out, I wasn't. Escorted out is more like it. Humiliated. Enraged. But too embarrassed to speak out. Yes. Yes. Yes. But THROWN out? No. Not exactly. Remember, I'm a hefty ass pregnant American cow. Ain't nobody in all of Asia could actually throw me.

Here's the deal. We checked into an absolutely gorgeous, marble floored, gilded railings type hotel in Halong Bay. As we made our way through the hotel with our gaggle of screaming banshees (AKA the beasties), a large poster type sign caught my eye. "One hour massage -- $12," it screamed out to me in not only English but the almighty American dollar. Now, who, who, I beg of you, who in all of our lazy culture would turn down an hour long massage for just 12 bucks? Certainly not I, your beloved Fat Housewife, heavy with belly and lousy with aching back.

Mike and I agreed to tag team the kids and the massage parlor. Being the generous gal that I am (not to mention lazy wife that just can't give a massage with these delicate hands), I let him take the first appointment at 8pm while I got the kids in bed. Then my appointment would be an hour later at 9pm. I called and made the appointments, told them I was making the reservations for my husband and me, that we'd be coming consecutively. No problem. It was all set. So off he went at 8pm. He returned at 9pm, full rested and excited for me to go down and get my turn.

"It was great. Really relaxing. You'll enjoy it. They're expecting you," he said as I rushed out the door filled with anticipation of the impending nirvana.

I waddled my way through the hotel to the massage parlor. It was located directly below the swimming pool and fitness center. In fact, there were large signs indicating which direction to go to get to the massage for just $12. Big signs. In full view of all hotel patrons. I came to the check in desk and a beautiful Vietnamese women in the traditional dress called aio dai greeted me.

"Hello," she said. "Are your children sleeping well?"

The hotel staff were all very friendly, spoke English comfortably, and were dressed in traditional Vietnamese garb with name tags clearly visible. This beauty was no exception. She had me sign a tab to bill the $12 to my room and then asked if I wanted something to drink. Just as I was saying no, that I was fine, a Korean man walked up to the desk. First, let me tell you, there were many Koreans staying at this hotel. It must be a favorite of Korean travel agents. Interestingly, though, Korean men largely outnumbered Korean women. Tables of Korean men drinking bottles of Russian vodka and eating plate fulls of steamed whole crabs filled the restaurants of the hotel. I paid little attention, really, figuring they were there to golf or some other manly activity.

"I want to see her first," said the Korean man standing next to me. "I want to meet her and then I'll pay."

"Yes, yes," said the gracious hostess with a charming smile, "Please allow me to take care of this customer and I will be right with you."

The man swayed a bit. "Just have her come out. I want to see her first."

The hostess then guided me to the waiting room and asked me to have a seat. I looked back at the swaying ajoshi (Korean word for "dude") and started to have feel some red flags go up. Why would he need to see a masseuse before the massage, I wonder. Ah, but Mike just had a massage and didn't mention any funny stuff. Plus, I reassured myself, the woman even remembered I was putting my kids to sleep. Nothing to worry about... until... she walked in.

Standing in front of me was a curvaceous Vietnamese woman in a skin tight micro mini topped with a hot pink, low cut, wrap around blouse, and 6 inch platform heels. I hadn't seen a woman who looked so much like a street walker since leaving Korea (yes, many Korean women mistake the stereotypical dress of a common whore with high fashion). I was shocked and nervous. But again, I thought, there is no way there's any hanky panky going on. Mike was just here. Mike just sent me down here. It has to be completely innocent.

"Follow," was all my street walker turned masseuse managed. It wasn't accompanied by a smile or even a warm hand gesture. Just a cold stare and "Follow." So I did. I waddled my way down a long, sterile looking hallway of shut doors till the end where a room stood open. She led me inside and without closing the door said, "Strip. Go in sauna."

"No. No, thank you," I smiled, "I don't want a sauna. Just as massage."

"Strip and go in sauna. Sauna good," she said sternly at an elevated volume.

"I can't," I quietly whined like a teenaged girl with her period during swimming class. "I cannot go into a sauna. It is bad for the baby," and I pointed to be protruding midsection.

"You have baby?" said my almost-a-whore in disgust while also pointing to my midsection.

I nodded.

"Follow," she said and strutted off back from whence we came

Her heels made a loud, angry clacking noise as we made our way back through the hall. About half way down, she began angrily shouting in Vietnamese. Almost instantly doors opened and out popped similarly dressed girls to see what was going on. She stopped and pointed at me, continuing on her Vietnamese tirade, none of which I understood literally, but the gist of which couldn't be missed through nonverbal cues. The other prostitute-like characters looked at me in disgust as I walked by them, head hung low, eyes brimming with shame and pregnancy hormones.

Honestly, if I hadn't been in such a vulnerable position, I would have been enraged. But feeling big and balloonish while waddling through a country where even the pregnant women are tiny and gorgeous, I was not about to confront a clan of women who make their money from massaging the Mr. Happy of drunken Korean boors. I just wanted to die, really. Right there. In the massage parlor of the Halong Plaza, surrounded by their cut rate call girls.

"Sit," she ordered and pointed to a chair in the waiting room. I did. And I looked around for the Korean man who was here just minutes before. He was gone. Probably getting his "massage" behind one of those closed doors. I'm sure I interrupted it, actually, since his gal had to stop what she was doing to come out and spit upon the arrogant, pregnant American. (no, not really, no one actually spit on me, but I think they might have if they thought they'd get away with it -- such really was the hate filled look on their faces).

I could hear an animated conversation going on between the gracious hostess and my juicy juicy girl. I couldn't see them as they were behind me, but there was plenty of back and forth going on between them. It stopped abruptly and I saw the scantily clad one click clack her way past me and into the hallway, but not without turning back for one last glare and a slam of the door.

In a flash the hostess was next to me, gesturing for me to rise.

"I'm sorry. You are pregnant?" she asked.

"Yes..." I said as I pointed to a belly even a blind man couldn't miss.

"I'm sorry. She says that massage is too dangerous for pregnant women. Too dangerous. I'm sorry," she said, her smiling growing in size and phoniness.

"I don't understand. What's dangerous?" I asked.

"I'm sorry. Too dangerous for you and for the baby," she nonanswered. "But," she lighted up, "we won't charge you!"

"Oh, gee, thanks." And I waddled my way back to our room.

You know as soon as I got into the room, I let all kinds of accusations fly at poor Mike who sat innocently enjoying his post massage endorphin buzz. He claims, even to this day, that his masseuse was dressed in plain white shorts and a tshirt with flip flops on her feet. Yeah, right. Although, convincingly he added that if something other than a massage had happened he sure as hell wouldn't have sent me down minutes later.

I just have to wonder what kind of shift change takes place at 9pm and how did I get fucked into taking the juicy juicy GI shift.

Also, for those wondering, this incident while cruel and unusual had nothing to do with our close call with a divorce lawyer. Honestly, we just don't travel well together. We never have. Mike is a horrible traveler. He hates to travel. Hates it. Oh, sure, he loves to see things and do things, but he's miserable and grumpy the whole time and likes to bring everyone else on the trip down with him. I'm pregnant and can't drink or smoke to deal with him. Plus, we had the kids. Needless to say, I spent a good portion of every dinner in the bathroom sobbing. It really was a fun trip.

Now you see how desperate was my need for a massage. The pregnant woman always gets fucked. And not literally. Don't eat this. Can't eat that. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Can't even get a decent happy ending massage by a cheap Vietnamese harlot. And I hadn't even packed my vibrator.

Home Seoul Home

We're back.

Vietnam is a beautiful country with people as lovely on the inside as they are on the outside. I highly recommend to anyone planning a vacation to look into spending some time there. Gorgeous and very affordable.

I'd share with you some video, but our camcorder experienced a formatting error and lost all footage I took.

I'd post some pictures, but our children (most likely Roman) got a hold of our digital camera and erased them.

I'd write all about our experiences and thoughts regarding our trip as I recorded it all down in a daily diary, but my journal was left on the plane, not to be recovered.

I'd try to recall the details from memory, but honestly, all I really remember is our suitcase broke, Mike's pants ripped clean through, I lost my earring, the face to Mike's new (and expensive) watch popped off, the children behaved like wicked, diabolical fiends from hell, I was thrown out of a massage parlor, I think we've been banned from Sofitel Hotels worldwide, and Mike and I came this close to Vietnamese divorce court.

But I swear, it had nothing to do with Vietnam. Vietnam really is a beautiful country.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go see if my supersized body still fits in my Korean micro-tub.

P.S. The picture from my last post is of.... drum roll please... My LEG! The part that looks like an arm is my thigh, near my knee. The boob part is my enormous calf resting on my other leg (I had my legs crossed). And the nipple part is the very end of my heel. Crazy, eh? When I saw it on the camera, I couldn't even figure it out at first. Then, as soon as I did, I had to take a picture. The simple things amuse me, really.

Something to keep you amused while I'm gone

We're off to Vietnam for a week. Saigon, Mekong Delta, Hanoi, Halong Bay. It all awaits us. Plus, you know I've gotta do it, SHOPPING! So excited. I grew up listening to stories of Vietnam. Since I was probably in utero. So this is something I'm really going to enjoy. Hopefully. Two kids and a cranky husband along with a big belly and swollen ankles may make it not so enjoyable. But then again, that's why we shelled out the extra money to stay in only top notch hotels. I'm am adventurous, but I ain't no friggin' backpacker.

So here's a little something to help you pass the time while I'm spending all of Mike's hard earned money. While I was in Seattle, Holly and I met my friend Kitty at a mall that had an indoor play area for the kids. As we were sitting there, I was readying my camera for the all important kids-at-indoor-play-area action shot and what came onto me camera shocked me. There in the middle of the play area was...



Yes, this. Of course, I had to snap a couple of photos of it.

My challenge to you all is tell me exactly what it is we're looking at in the above picture. Holly, Kitty. No fair flapping the gums. Keep the traps shut. Although, I'll name you two in charge in my absence.