Red in the Face

Wow.  I feel like I can breath for the first time in weeks.  It's been non-stop action between work, parties, and traveling.  T and I got in a doozy of a fight last night.  There were cold, measured monologues that apparently sounded like college theses (me) and blank stares and fake falling asleep (T).  I was so peeved that I attempted to use a tactic I employed when I was sent to my room as a kid: I stood alone in front of a mirror and quietly tensed every muscle in my body until my face began to turn from beet red to a deep purple.

This is how I felt on the inside

Then I let go.  Fully.  Took a deep breath.  Felt more relaxed.  But this time, I was punished with a painful muscle spasm in my back when I awoke this morning.

And then there were tears.  Alone in the dark.  Sitting on the couch and watching the blinking lights of the highrises across the way.  Breath in two three.  Breath out two three.

I am a hollow reed...

Now, you're probably wondering what was the catalyst that made our sugary love turn sour, our smooth sailing turn rocky?  It was, sadly, predictable, as the crux of the fight was the same as it's always been: T's cigarette smoking.  I don't want to be with a smoker for so many reasons: I don't want to raise children who become smokers; I subscribe to the belief that your body is a temple and have a hard time understanding why someone would willingly put their health in danger and shorten their time with the people they love; and of course, it smells bad.  I think there's another part, too: I see the addiction as a weakness, a crutch, and I find that so unsexy.

There seems to be no real middle ground with this if we are to continue on our path together.  Either I accept that T is a smoker and just deal with it.  Or he quits.  We've tried both and have failed, so now we find ourselves (again) at an impasse.

It makes me very

                            sad 

                   angry               

                             frustrated 

And in pain.  My back hurts.

We eventually fell asleep, curled up together even thought we were still both angry and had come to no resolution.  (T is the master at this kind of avoidance/packaging problems up and putting them away.  It can be mind-numbingly infuriating for me.)  There will be further discussion tonight.

oh the joy
 

Playing Santa

I've been thinking about what to give everyone for Xmas.  I usually very good at getting everything in order before it gets to be last minute, but I realized that I am leaving in less than a week and don't have much time left!  I had planned on making a variety of cookies and giving boxfuls of them to T's folks, work colleagues, and Bangkok friends, but with time ticking, I think I may opt for something a bit less time-consuming: homemade granola.  I figure it's kind of perfect since granola my favorite thing in the whole world to eat.  I am awaiting email receipt of my mom's recipe and can then shop for the rare items, prepare the treat in bulk, and give it away in air tight glass jars like this one:

I'm considering sending copies of this book to my niece (I think my bro and his wife will appreciate it, too) and T's niece and nephews:

You can read the whole book here.  Added value: For every book bought on the Awesome World Foundation website, one copy is donated to a school, library, hospital, etc.  in the U.S. and abroad.

I'm still trying to come up with a good idea for T.  I'm planning to find something in NYC for him, but I don't know what I'm looking for.  He's the kind of guy who has very particular (and expensive) taste and usually buys the things he want when he wants them.  I often have to get creative.  In the past, I have given him a gift certificate for studio time at a ceramics place so that he could revisit a past passion; developed an elaborate treasure hunts around Bangkok; taken him for nice dinners to new restaurants; and bought him an elegant pair of cufflinks.  So, even though I struggle with an idea for a somewhat significant gift, there is one certainty: when I return at the end of the month, T will be enjoying some cinnamon rolls and other items from one of his favorite bakeries:

Balthazar

Jaws!

I have a seriously impairing fear of sharks that usually manages to keep me on the shore and out of dark swimming pools.  I have tried scuba diving and mind-over-matter and have even considered hypnosis, but I think this may be the answer to conquering my phobia:

Sharks with People Teeth

The Huffington Post

Easy As Pie?

Two months ago, T and I threw a birthday party for a new friend.  I made an elaborate chocolate berry layer cake that received rave reviews from the guests, many of whom thought we had purchased it from a local bakery.  I was so proud. 

At the party, one of T’s good friends told me that, as a kid, he never liked cake and always requested apple pie on his birthday.  Knowing he had a milestone birthday approaching, I planned to attempt an apple pie.  After much online research and countless recipe reviews that warned of the difficulties of getting pie crust just right, I was scared off, but I still wanted to give our friend a pie, so I did something I am somewhat embarrassed to admit: I bought frozen crust.   

Oh, the shame!  

Coming from a family that honors homemade goodness above store bought foods, buying something mediocre and pre-made was a difficult thing to do.  

T helped with the peeling and slicing of the apples (he loves to be my sous-chef).  I used the recipe from Smitten Kitchen and was a bit disappointed by the lack of cohesion of the filling when the pie was cut.  Perhaps I should have added more flour or some cornstarch since the apples were particularly juicy. It was kind of a mess.  The other problem that pained me was that it was an especially ugly, lumpy excuse for a pie.  

Nevertheless, served with a scoop ice cream, everyone with their champagne-dulled taste buds ate it up.  Most importantly though, the birthday boy was very touched by the effort.  And he had seconds.

***

In conversation last night, I learned that in the mid-1800’s, during the American Civil War, Abraham Lincoln received a telegram from the Thai king, Mongkut, offering to deliver working elephants to the U.S.  Lincoln politely declined.  The question that arose over the apple pie was "why?".  As bizarre an offer as it was, wouldn’t acceptance have be a diplomatic gesture?

T and me elephant riding in Chiang Rai, July 2009

Hiding Under the Covers

I have been on a reading kick the past few months.  I attribute it to the acquisition of a bedside table and lamp that now allow me to comfortably read in bed while T watches stupid movies.  Last night, I finished The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.  It was recommended by so many people and yet I struggled to get through it.  I didn't find the story engaging, as Adiga was transparent in his use of it as a vehicle for a social commentary on modern India.  Further, the characters lacked development and were mere sketches of stereotypical servants and masters.  Though it did convey a picture (though, rather simplified) of class warfare and social hierarchy in India, I'm surprised it won the Man Booker Prize.

I was relieved when I got to the last page, since that meant I could start something new.  I immediately began Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer by James L. Swanson.  This is far from the kind of book I would choose to read, but a friend lent it to me and assured me that it doesn't read like a history textbook, but rather like a white-knuckle mystery (also, not my favorite genre) that I wouldn't be able to put down.  Who doesn't love reading a book they can't put down?

On another note, I have two more weeks before I am suppose to be on a plane to the US for Xmas with the fam, which I'm excited about.  But, I have yet to get my tickets.  I hate travel planning.  Especially when it's peak season and not easy to do.  I am in avoidance mode.

Blogger Naivete

I realize my posts have been long, rambling, and boring.  From here on out, I vow to stop using this space as a mental-diarrhea depositing spot.

Carrying on...

I hate cigarette smoke.  It makes my hair and clothes smell.  It makes T's breath smell.  It eventually causes long, agonizing deaths.  (OK, I admit it.  I may have succumbed to the indoctrination of the DARE program in 5th grade.)  This anti-smoking campaign ad cracked me up.  LOVE.

And the Pendulum Swings

I am feeling so cranky today.  I have been happy going along, living in the present, which is a feat for me.  But, last night, T brought up a couple of things that have been on his mind and I was suddenly catapulted back into my old ways of life-impairing forward thinking.  He wants to discuss his smoking (I despise the smell of cigarettes and the idea that someone would willfully shorten their life) in relation to our upcoming post-New Years trip to the beach with T's visiting childhood friend and his wife.

That issue is less nerve-wracking than the weightier one T brought up at the same time: my plans for med school and what that means for "us".  I feel like, eventually, I will have to decide whether to choose to pursue a fulfilling career or opt for love (and the possibility of a dead-end professional life).  It just doesn't seem fair.  If T told me he wanted to go to school far far away to further his career, I would be thrilled and supportive and go along with the whole adventure.  That, to me, is true love and true commitment.  But maybe I am being a bit too hard-nosed about this.  Pursuing my dreams would mean a strain on our relationship since med school and residency would be powerful black holes that would eat up eight, long, fertile years of my life.  Plus, T would have to start over somewhere new.  I happen to think such a push would be good for him, since, if he stays here in Bangkok, he will live a status quo life, falling into routine and ultimately not feeling great about his career/life.  A move would require he address the career/work self-evaluation that he is so adept at avoiding.

It all seems to boil down to who is going to either throw in the towel or end up compromising much more.  And, here, I thought things were going so well...

La Victoire by Rene Magritte