Good afternoon; I smell like a man.
It was either men’s Nivea or women’s whitening deodorant today- or none at all- and since the second prospect terrified me and the third likely terrified others, I made the easy decision between this and Axe body spray.
At least I smell like a grown-up man.
There aren’t a lot of things left here that I particularly want to do (exception: eat stuff) but I figured I’d hit the famous weekend market to give housekeeping a chance to replace my two free water bottles a day. Also, I read that there might be pythons, so I figured maybe to find myself a yellow one and pretend I was Britney Spears for awhile.
You know… do some public writhing. I hear dudes dig that.
My first stop, however, had to be the exchange counter, but I found myself there ten minutes early, gazing wistfully at the shop next door: The Pink Pussy. The place sold accessories, and upon realizing this, it was without hesitation- I still follow Pumps the Pumps’ sacred commandments- that I confidently strode in.
Side note: what with all the slowbie amblers slothing about town, I told myself before leaving my room that I needed to find a pragmatic solution because it was either deal with it with a sense of humor or make like Shel Silverstein and show ‘em where the sidewalk ends. Thus, I made a pact with myself to “stride” as much as humanly possible, allowing for a) a more gratifying pace, and b) the singing of “nobody gonna slow me down! Nuh-oh! I got to keep on movin’!”
Scoff if you will, but I’ve been playing Candy Crush for a couple of months now. Does anyone else have that problem: the one where every time the screen says “Clear all the jelly!” you start singing Destiny’s Child? Because I have been mentally harmonizing “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly” more often than I care to admit. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna’ break-a my stride” seemed like trading up as well as being useful, and I’ll defend that decision ‘til the sacred cows come home. End side note.
What was I talking about? Oh, right: The Pink Pussy.
The little shop was full of deliciously tacky costume jewelry, and as you may know, I eat that stuff for breakfast. Plus I wanted to be able to tell Trav that I’d been inside the Pink Pussy because I think he’d giggle. I love it when I can make college professors giggle at dirty or scatological jokes.
It’s totally okay, you can judge me for that. Also for this: when Carly Rae Jepson came on, I took it as a sign to buy something.
Anyway, I was finally able to grab some baht and a cab, and then I played the game I recently invented when dealing with cabdrivers who don’t speak English well but still want to chat. It’s called word association, and it involves basically just me identifying isolated syllables from their babble and saying the first word that comes to mind. It works out much better than continually asking a person to repeat himself- which makes both parties feel terrible- because I’m either identifying his English correctly and making socially appropriate responses, or not translating properly at all and spewing nonsense, thus appearing too weird to converse with further. I win either way. Not that I was worried about “socially appropriate” with this guy, because look:
I also had to pop my daily anti-malarial, which I’m learning to hate. I usually have the digestive constitution of a world superpower, but these stupid pills make it feel like an eddy in the stream. (There’s your scatological joke, Trav, did you like it? You’re probably not reading this. You’re probably reading, like “Astrophysicists Monthly” or something. You know what? Get over yourself. Hmmph.)
Right. So when I finally arrived at the 35 acre market, I resigned myself to a couple of hours of wandering. See, I’m not really a shopper and honestly wasn’t that amped about the prospect of such a vast acreage of trinkets. Plus I knew that, with the 90+ heat and humidity, the Nivea and whiteners weren’t going to work on everybody. I frankly do not love odors.
It was much of what I expected- without the pythons- but I actually did see some really interesting things! The place was huge and specialized, and there honestly was something for everyone: antiques, books, clothing, the expected trinkets. There was also a ton of stuff for pretty much no one: an entire stall of assorted “toilet” signs, a compendium entitled The Lichens of Great Britain and Ireland, and phallically carved drug paraphernalia. I saw a chinchilla at the I Love Guinea Pigs World Farm, and a bunch of baby rabbits dressed in baby rabbit tutus. It was the perfect mix of cute and nauseating.
I hate to admit it, but I would, in fact, happily furnish my entire apartment with the stuff I saw in some of the other stalls. Especially the dragon gates, man! I want my friends to come to my door through dragon gates.
Eventually my nose decided it was time to go, so I strode my way toward an exit from the maze, with no intention of making the trip’s only purchase: a Portland t-shirt with a horse and jockey, which I will henceforth wear proudly for Derby prep.
I know… it’s not even remotely Britney. But alas, I smell more like JT, anyway.