My eleven-year top ten

As I count down to my last 9-5 shift as a cog in the corporate machine on April 30, 2007, I am left to recount my top ten memories of the last eleven years of serfdom. In reverse order:

10. Playing the popular after-dinner game "what's your psychosis" with colleagues in Penang, Malaysia
9. Riding a camel, smoking a hookah, and belly dancing in Dubai
8. Playing "who looks the gayest" with a group of straight colleagues at Telephone Bar in Patpong, Bangkok
7. Enjoying fresh hot chocolate and churros while traipsing over cobblestones in Coyoacan, Mexico City
6. Being able to compartmentalize my past and create new relationships with my former homes of Seoul and Tokyo
5. Watching Bruce Rogers nearly wet himself in Vancouver as John Lowe told the "peanut" story for the 38th time
4. Shaking a string of bones as a member of an impromptu ensemble of percussionists at a house party in an hacienda in Manila
3. Attending a ritualistic candomblé macumba in Sao Paulo, Brazil
2. Belting out 80s British invasion hits in a karaoke box in London
1. Showing colleagues and friends from around the world pictures of my soon-to-be son at a TESOL conference

What do the next eleven years have to offer? We'll just have to see...

Ostara by any other name

Whatever you call it: Easter, Eostre, Ostara, the celebrations all share a common core. Rabbits and eggs. Fertility and rebirth of the earth. I thought it would be interesting to find some really vernal-equinox-inspired dish to make for the holiday. I ended up learning a lot about Hot Cross Buns, which originally were made to symbolize the equality of night and day at this point in the calendar, and which were considered so pagan that they were banned by churches for centuries--even though Christians in England continued to eat them as paganism and new Christian traditions mixed. Finally Elizabeth I decreed that they could be eaten, but only at Easter and Christmas. Thanks, Liz.

In the end, I decided not to make them. Not because of the religious controversy, but because they require yeast. Too much bother. I made a banana cream pie instead.

We decorated eggs, something the whole family can do to celebrate the season, no matter what each person believes.

Three men--one hookah

I recently got back from what will probably be my last trip to Dubai in a while. While I didn't see much more than the conference hotel and a couple of nice restaurants, we did get one evening out by the Creek, as they call it, watching the dhows sail by while smoking a hookah pipe. (It's only apple-flavored tobacco, people.) I think I might pick one up at my local Syrian grocery in anticipation of hummus and baba ghanouj nights out on the patio.

Dungeons of suburbia

When I went to iParty about a year or so ago and put my cartful of wigs, boas, hats and other performance accoutrements onto the checkout counter, the 17-year-old clerk looked at me with a catatonic, "I'd rather be texting my boyfriend" gaze and uttered in a deadpan tone, "So, you havin' a party or somethin'?" I inched closer, looked wide-eyed at her and stated, "I'm 40. I live in the suburbs. This is what we do." Needless to say, the rest of the transaction was conducted in an eerie silence.

Little did Miss Clerk know that all of this was just for innocent karaoke fun in my basement. Here's an action shot of Rebecca, Lauren, Koby, Jennifer, Jason and myself belting out Waterloo--always a crowd-pleaser, and with its own history lesson to boot.

Ski'd Row

Yes, I know this is LATE. But things have been just a little busy this spring. We finally got a chance for a little R&R in late February--Lake Tahoe Style. Both Koby and I got on skis for the first time--at Squaw Valley, site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. Unfortunately I didn't get photos of Koby, but according to his instructor, Cat, Koby stayed out the longest of his Squaw Kids group.

Mic and I took a first-timer lesson, though he didn't need it (I did!). I think he was just trying to protect his body for the Boston Marathon. Ben and Anh are already experienced skiers, so they went their own way. After several falls and learning to contort my knees in a way I'm unaccustomed to, I was flying down the bunny slopes with the rest of the the ski-virgins.


When we weren't in the après-ski hottub at our little lakeside bungalow (luckily there are no pictures of this), we were eating, drinking and making merry. The second day we went to Mt. Rose ski resort--much easier and less overwhelming than Squaw, though it did have very strict rules (see photo).


Dennis didn't end up skiing, as he was getting over a nasty flu, but he did find a way to exercise nonetheless. Again and again and again.