Byebye Taiwan. Hello SE Asia!

I worked in residence life during college, and once I proudly went on about my wonderful organizational skills in front of my boss. He laughed/snorted and said, "No, Mel, I'm pretty sure that's called being anal retentive." He sugar-coated a lot of things--probably a coping mechanism for living in the same building as 186 college kids--but when it came to my neurosis, he called it like he saw it.

In college classes, this probably worked in my favor. I never lost assignments or forgot exams, and my notes were essentially transcripts with doodles in the margins. But this behavior predated college by about 18 years. As a child, I kept my book series in numerical order and used a ruler to underline things in textbooks (to avoid squiggly lines of course). One Christmas, my gifts were "organization themed." I got an electronic organizer, Mary Engelbreit Post-its, and a markerboard. This might sound like lackluster parenting, but I was delighted by these presents. ("This organizer comes with a stylus?! SCORE!")

There are some upsides to trying to keep life mess-free. I rarely do things I will regret, like drunk text or paint my nails neon orange. And I've never gotten an overdraft fee or choked on poorly-chewed food.

But the downsides suck. I approach everything in life with the same attitude I have about gynecology appointments: "Let's get this over with so I can check it off my list." This has led to me missing out on some key rites of passage, like streaking or dating a bad boy. OK, I don't mind skipping the bad boy drama, but do wish I had run across the soccer field topless with my friends in college that one time. It was only streaking in the strictest sense of the word (It was the middle of the night and no one saw them except each other.), but I opted to sit in the running car and keep a look out for campus security.

It's not that I want to radically change who I am. Structure keeps humanity from imploding. Deadlines keep the world moving forward. Aspirations give people something to work towards.

I just want to stop getting nicknamed "Mom."

I have lightened up over the past few years. Living with another person has required it. Once Josh and I started splitting laundry duty, my once colored-coded underwear drawer turned into a mosh pit of mis-matched socks, men's T-shirts, and other miscellanous items such as plastic bags and ripped mittens, all bouncing out like a bunch of Bieber-crazed teens whenever I opened the drawer.

After about a year of such household mayhem, I realized two things.
1) Spending a few minutes a week searching for matching socks or re-sorting the recycling is not worth an argument.
2) Josh spends half as much time planning his life as I do, yet the vague plans he has in his head work out about as well as the bullet-listed ones I write down on sticky notes.

Since these epiphanies, my life has gotten a lot more relaxed. It started with small steps--mixing darks and lights, leaving the house without mascara, shaving ONLY once a week during winter--and now I've moved to the big leagues: backpacking through Southeast Asia for four months.

Yes, that's right. Josh and I are leaving Taiwan on Monday to traipse through the Philippines, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam until July (or until we run out of money). We've been planning on this trip for almost a year, and I have been super excited. Until last week, when we went on a two-day trip to a friend's house. I was in the shower one morning trying to figure out which bottle was the shampoo.

This one? No. Facewash.
This one? No. Silky bodywash.
This one? All Chinese. Let's try it.

As I lathered up my hair with the mystery liquid, I thought, "Man, I can't wait to shower in my own shower again. [ Pause. ] On our trip, I won't have my own shower. Our trip is four months long. OMG. FML.*"

I don't miss sleeping in my own bed so much, but there's something about showering in other people's showers that freaks me out. That tile is caked with dirt and sweat and dead skin cells that countless strangers have scrubbed off their body, likely after peeing down the drain first, all sealed in by a thick coat of soap residue and mildew.

Also, I can't see in the shower. I'm pretty near-sighted, so to find the bottle I want, I have to either hold it a few inches from my face to read it or rely on the senses of touch, smell, or taste, which is not ideal.

Even without communal showers, this trip's potential for messiness is HIGH.

We are living out of backpacks.
We are staying with a couchsurfer for the first three days of our trip. After that, we're just rollin' into town / village / island without a plan.
The timeline we have put together ends abruptly on May 27. I typed up a timeline, but it has a lot of question marks. Like, for example, underneath "Return to U.S." Hell, we haven't even decided where we're returning to.
During the next four months, we are just going wherever the wind takes us.

WTF?!?!?!?!

I am terrified. But I'm also excited. I'm excitified.

The anal retentive me would have only felt sheer terror. So, even though I wish I could just be excited, I guess this is--albeit meager--progress.

I am excited for obvious reasons, like new cultures, top-notch snorkeling, and alcoholic concoctions in coconut shells, but I'm also excited for the personal growth this trip should bring. I have long envied the process-oriented, the ones who do for the sake of doing. They are the chalk-street artists, the sky-divers, the casual daters, the ones who do not live in a tiny drab box.

Really, it's the reason this blog is titled what it is--I am not bohemian by nature, but the idea is appealing. It always has been. My grandmother has a picture of my sister and I dressed up in my mom's old clothes when we were kids. My sister is button-cute in my mom's old Brownie dress. And I am dressed in a black sparkly top and a multi-colored tulle skirt. My grandma says I look like a gypsy. I guess part of me has always wanted to be a roamer. I just wasn't ready to embrace it until now.

Now that I think about it, I am brandishing a bejeweled wand in that picture, so I was probably going for princess. But I look like a gypsy. We'll just go with that.



*Yeah, I think in text lingo.

Out with the Old, In with the New

At work yesterday, I was browsing Inc. for reading passage ideas when I came across "6 Things Really Productive People Do." (Yes, the title really emphasizes really.) Normally, I would have scrolled right past this—it doesn’t take an expert to come up with gems like “Pick your priorities,” “Celebrate progress,” or “Lay off the Farmville.” But the tagline caught my attention. “Have you noticed that some people just seem to accomplish tons and still appear happy and relaxed?”

“Yes,” I thought. “And it makes me want to punch them in the face.”

New Year’s always brings out this sentiment in me. Even if I it was a good year, I am plagued by thoughts like:

What was I DOING all year?

I am frittering away my time. I am a fritterer.

I sleep too much. Why can’t I be like Hillary Clinton* or Leslie Knope** or those people that sleep like four hours a night and are still high-functioning machines?

Eventually, the year’s worth of self-loathing passes, and I settle into contemplating the year ahead. I’ve loved making New Year’s resolutions since I was a kid. I have a Rubbermaid container full of old journals, and each contains the resolutions I faithfully set every January 1 of my growing-up years.

When I was 9, I vowed to make that boy in Sunday School who kept putting glue in my hair fall in love with me. When I was 11, I decided to become just like Nancy Drew. In high school and college, my resolutions were run-of-the-mill and easily broken: exercise three times a week, pray before bed, eat salad for lunch. As an adult, I’ve been setting the bar quite a bit lower, like in 2011, when I resolved to try yoga one time at some point or other before the year ended.

And then there was last year, when I was hung over on New Year’s Day and felt that aspirations were worthless, as was life itself, and I would never be able to accomplish anything ever again anyway because I was never going to get out of that bed. So, I grumpily snatched my new 2012 planner off the bedside table and scribbled this on the inside of the cover: Either crap or get off the pot.*** I was stuck with that glorious ambition all year.

For the sake of my resolutions and my liver, I acted with more discretion during the wee hours of 2013. I’ve been mulling over goals since then, and I’ve decided to follow that ridiculous article’s advice after all since, so far, doing my own thing hasn’t been that successful.

I am picking new priorities.

1. End each day with gratitude. Before bed, write down (or at least think to myself before passing out) one good thing that happened. – It is a wonderful life, just like Frank Capra taught us, and it’s time to appreciate it more fully.

2. Read more. Watch TV less. – For feeling so superior about not owning a television, I watch an awful lot of TV. To start the year off right, Josh and I will be abstaining from TV and movies next week. Those seven days will feel like 40 days in the wilderness.

I am celebrating progress I’ve made.

The past year was a year of personal growth and trying new things. I . . .

. . . got a tobacco pipe, regularly went to yoga class, tried meditation, discovered the line between drinking and giving myself a hangover, and participated in like, my first real athletic competition ever (Dragon Boat racing).

. . . decided to be transparent with the people I love. With some, this means being open about my faith. With others, it means not hiding the actions that they think are wrong.

. . . acknowledged that I would probably not find the life of a “career woman” fulfilling, and what I really desire to do is write. I figured this out at a church retreat at the end of this summer. We were having a time of small group discussion, and one of the questions was, “If you could do anything and God guaranteed your success, what would you do?” and I instantly thought, “Write a book. [pause] Oh. So I do know what I want to do with my life.” And then everyone else in my group gave spiritual answers. Fail.

. . . realized that I want to adopt a child, maybe even a few. I also want to garden, bake, refinish secondhand furniture, and other housewifey things.

I am laying off the Farmville.

I’ve never actually played Farmville, but the same principle applies to Gilmore Girls. I’ve seen every season four times. And I’m most likely underestimating with that number.

Wishing you and yours a bright, happy, really productive 2013.




*Obviously excluding this blood clot episode
**Yes, I know she’s a fictional character. That doesn’t make her high energy levels any less inspiring/distressing.
***It’s supposed to be metaphorical, you juvenile dolt.

Genuine Thanksgiving

This past Thanksgiving weekend, I didn’t eat any turkey or yams, and I only had half of a piece of pumpkin pie, but I realized I have much to be thankful for. The funny thing is, I think this is the first Thanksgiving that I didn’t try to force thankfulness. It just came.

A common American Thanksgiving tradition is to go around the table and name a few things you’re thankful for. The social media craze seems to have taken this to a whole other level–listing something you’re thankful for every day of November. Usually, people give glossy, pre-packaged answers: my family, my significant other, my job, my freedom of religion. Come to think of it, it could make a fun drinking game. Hear the word family, do a shot.

It’s an admirable tradition, taking a few minutes to contemplate the blessings you’ve been given, and I don’t want to denounce it. But every year, it sets me on edge. I’m not good at putting on a show, of acting a certain way when I’m not feeling it. Sometimes, this is a virtue. (Saving my friend from buying an unflattering dress) Other times, it’s a fault. (Not complimenting my friend on her new baby because his face is raisin purple)

So when I’m put on the spot to fork over a serving of thankfulness, it often doesn’t happen. I just regurgitate something that will pacify the people around me. “My family, my significant other, this scrumptious-looking meal . . .” It’s not like those are lies. I am grateful for those truths. But I don’t really mean it, not in that moment.

I explained the tradition to a friend on Thursday. She thought it sounded great and wanted to do it. In our gluttony-induced comas, we kind of forgot, but I want to do it now.

This year, I’m thankful for . . .

. . . a group of friends. It takes me a long time to settle in to a place, into a group of people. I didn’t feel like Boston was home until it was time to leave. But Taiwan has been different. My friends and I may not have all the same interests or speak the same native language, but with them, I am free to be myself.

. . . Taiwanese friendliness. One of Josh and my Thanksgiving dinners was at our church. We were the only two foreigners there, and I was the only one who doesn’t speak Chinese. Yet all the festivities–the songs, the skit, the testimonies–were all translated into English. For me.

. . . parents who don’t always agree or understand, but who do always love and respect. I mean, my mother is reading Caitlin Moran right now because I mentioned it to her a few weeks ago. That is love.

. . . learning, at the behest of Josh, to ignore trivialities and pursue what makes me happy: books, writing, beer, copious amounts of coffee, and figuring out how to light my pipe by like, the third try. My underwear drawer is totally unorganized (finding a pair of matching socks is murder). My legs are getting prickly. And that is OK. I think.

I’ve pulled up a chair to many Thanksgiving tables: my mother’s, both my grandmothers’, my Boston landlord’s daughter’s, a French restaurant’s in Montreal, and a Taiwanese-Canadian couple’s. This year, it was some friends’ coffee table overloaded with seafood pasta and fried chicken. But I finally felt what Thanksgiving is really about.

The Real Taiwan

Lonely Planet: Taiwan (Yes, I am that mainstream.) says that venturing outside of Taipei gives travelers “their first taste of what many consider to be the ‘real Taiwan.’” Josh and I spent five days road tripping around Taiwan on Rodney the Motorcycle for the Double Ten holiday, and Real Taiwan is certainly cooler than . . . the fake one. (?) It was a magical place where the air smelled like jasmine and pollution didn’t blot out the sun.


Day 1 – 220 km

When I was a kid, I loved the book Misty of Chincoteague. I wanted a horse with “a patch of white on her side, shaped like the United States” desperately. But horses—nationalist symbols or not—did not want me. I was that pre-teen girl at the horse-riding birthday parties whose tame, donethisfordecadeswithoutbuckinganyone mare would get distracted by some tasty morsel of grass, fall behind the group, then get spooked by my cries for help and gallop away, only to be rounded up by a not-handsome-at-all cowboy.

After spending seven straight hours on the motorcycle, I think those horses were doing me a favor. They could smell the weakness in me when it comes to chapped tushie. We wanted to get as far away from the sprawling capital in one day as possible, so we made a break for Taroko Gorge.

We passed these views along the way.

*Yilan

Taroko Gorge is the number one tourist destination in Taiwan, and it’s easy to see why. It’s basically a mini Grand Canyon except with marble walls and a river with minerals in it that make it a cloudy grey-blue.

People here have a different style of traveling—families and friends go places together, in huge groups on double-decker tour buses. That’s totally awesome until 30+ buses (For reals. We counted.) are trying to navigate the windy, two-lane road perched on the edge of cliffs through the Gorge. Normally, driving a motorcycle means you can just whip around traffic jams, but not when there are buses involved. It took us 20ish minutes to go five kilometers.

*Note: This is the widest part of the road.

Day 2 – 180 km

Back on the bike, we spent the day on Highway 9, which goes along the East Rift Valley between the East Coast Mountain Range and the Central Mountain Range. The valley makes up about 20% of Taiwan’s land mass but only 2% of its population. Basically, it’s just stretches of rice fields and fruit trees. With mountains on each side, expanses of rice fields, and wizened farmers in conical hats, it’s the Asia that people who have never been to Asia always picture.

Day 3 – 14 km

We spent Monday hiking the Walami Trail, some of the best preserved jungle in Taiwan. It was here that I learned something new about Josh: he can talk to monkeys.

There were monkeys everywhere. We had staring matches with five or six different troops. They would stare at us for several minutes, their little red faces indignant through the trees. They’d yell this single syllable squawk back and forth, (probably monkey speak for “Stranger, danger!”) and then all we’d see were the trees swaying back and forth and they swung away. Seeing monkeys in the wild was definitely a highlight.

Back to Josh’s special gift. The first time we heard their danger squawk, we couldn’t quite spot them through the dense foliage. So Josh, a monkey aficionado, mimicked their squawk perfectly and, sure enough, they jumped towards us. Then they realized they were getting lured in by that creepy guy with the dark van and did an about-face, but it was still cool.

*We didn't see any of these, but I kind of wanted to.

*The ferns were as big as palm trees!

Day 4 – 220 km

On day four, it was time to set our sails for home. We took Highway 9 back along the coast.

*Water buffalo

Day 5 – 130 km

Seeing as we had passed the Tropic of Cancer (i.e. that invisible line that keeps rain clouds at bay) the day before, the last stretch wasn’t as picturesque. But it was beautiful in its own grey way.

We stopped at my favorite place in Taiwan for seafood – Daxi Fishing Port. . .

. . . and got a bowl of fried goodness, including fried seaweed. That may sound gross to the uninitiated, but I haven’t met someone yet who tried it and didn’t become addicted.

We did other cool things too, like soaking in hot springs, and met lots of great people, like our couchsurfing host's toddler, who was obsessed with "the Germans." Now, three weeks later, winter is approaching. Soon, I’ll be enduring nonstop drizzle and cleaning mold off the apartment walls. But, even when I’m drying my face with my perpetually wet towel, at least I’ll always have the Real Taiwan.

Sun Moon Lake

Riding the subway during rush hour here is akin to being one of the first customers into Best Buy on Black Friday—by the time you leave, you’re bruised, you’re battered, and your sense of personal space has been beaten and left for dead.

But swimming across a lake with 28,000 people for 2.5 hours makes taking the MRT look like child’s play.

This past weekend was Taiwan’s annual Sun Moon Lake International Swimming Carnival (the real English name), the one day a year that people are allowed to swim in the biggest lake on the island. Crystal clear and surrounded by mountains, it’s no wonder people jump at the chance to get in (pun intended). In fact, it’s the world’s largest open water swim.

People have been doing this 3.3 km swim since 1983, and there’s always a big turn-out. At first, I thought this was odd because many Taiwanese people can’t swim. I’m not sure why, seeing as the nation is, ya know, surrounded by water. But the sport’s just not that popular.




Then I learned that there are a few safety measures for the Sun Moon Lake swim.

1. Piers with two lifeguards are stationed every 100 meters. Swimmers may stop and rest on these piers, which also have snacks like chocolate and “Friendly Biscuits” available.

- Some swimmers took this opportunity to whip out their Ziploc baggies protecting cigarettes and iPhones and take a smoke / Facebook break.

2. Every swimmer must have a floating device. And carrying it is not acceptable—it must be firmly secured to the body.

3. Swimmers must stay in the 50-meter-wide swimming lane. If one strays by even a few inches, the lifeguards will blow unceasingly on their whistles until the deviating swimmer returns to the safety of the lane.

4. Every swimmer must wear a swimming cap, which he or she may take off and wave if in need of assistance. (This serves the additional benefit of keeping gross human hair from contaminating the outdoor lake.)

5. To avoid cramps or other injuries, swimmers MUST walk the one-kilometer path to the lake to warm up for the swim.

So it’s more of the world’s safest float trip than a swimming competition.

At first, I thought the rules were overkill, but I was pretty grateful for that floatie once I had to start treading water five minutes in because there were so many people around I literally couldn’t move forward. And the warm-up was smart thinking too. Turns out, dog paddling can be taxing if you do it long enough. Thanks to the warm-up, however, the biggest injury I sustained was floatie burn – like rug burn, except under your arms.

Oh, and all that stuff you hear about Asians doing anything to avoid a tan–it’s all true. Even with the outdoorsy types, it’s true.

The Hunger Games Trilogy

Warning: Spoilers are everywhere.

THE GOOD

The Hunger Games trilogy is a relevant read for teens coming of age in an era when technology is revamping warfare. Panem is a grim picture of what the future might hold if this trend is left unchecked. The prosperous, high-tech Capitol uses little hand-to-hand combat, opting instead for long-distance weapons like muttations, genetically-engineered animals that are trained to kill, but only after a little psychological torture. They also utilize pods, defense mechanisms that can do anything from trap unsuspecting passerby in barbed nets to grind up humans like chicken. These weapons provide maximum enemy casualties without putting the home team at risk. (Sound familiar?)

The way Suzanne Collins depicts the brutal reality of war is perfect—not so gruesome that it gives kids nightmares, but heavy enough to show that taking lives in the name of war is no trivial thing. It also encourages young people to consider a question many adults shrug off: Is war ever the right answer?

THE BAD

People have criticized The Hunger Games for being too much like the Twilight series. But be honest: Twilight was less infuriating. At least Stephanie Meyer didn’t sucker readers into thinking that Bella is some brave heroine. You know she is an airhead with an unhealthy sexual orientation from the start. Katniss, on the other hand, can use a bow. She is a hunter, a rebel who sneaks past the district boundaries to keep her family fed, savvy enough to not only get herself but also a maimed Peeta out of the arena alive. She has all the makings of a revolutionary.



At the end of Catching Fire, however, it turns out she’s just a pawn that the real ringleaders have been using to rally the districts. She was left totally in the dark. After they do reveal their game plan, they ask her to be their leader, but she’s not calling any shots.

All she needs to do is stand in front of a camera and look pretty.

OK, I know she actually has to look angry and act war-like on camera. And I’m aware that she’s only chosen as the Mockingjay because of the gumption she showed in the first arena. But still, for a story about a girl who starts a revolution, neither she nor any of the other female characters are great role models. Johanna is crazier than Katniss (granted, it’s for legitimate reasons like being tortured for months), Katniss’s mother basically abandoned her children a few years before, and Coin is a power-hungry youknowwhat. What empowering women.

AND THE UGLY

Katniss Everdeen is a class-A idiot.

Instead of maximizing what leadership potential her Mockingjay position does have, she acts like a child. It seems like all she can do is scream, wallow, and (sort of) follow orders.

When opportunity literally falls in her lap via a Holo (a “glorified map” reserved for squad leaders), she does take action, leading the charge to assassinate President Snow. But this isn’t some grand display of bravery. She only wants to fulfill her own immature lust for revenge, placing others’ lives at risk in the process.

And then there’s the whole love triangle. Katniss is the stereotypical female, stringing two suitors along as she pleases because she’s too dumb to make up her mind. Peeta is sweet, but Gale is a real man. Whatever shall I do?

She’s Scarlett O’Hara minus the Southern gowns.

Katniss ultimately rejects Gale because his disregard for human life may or may not have led to Prim’s death. But later, Katniss approves of Coin’s idea to hold one more Hunger Games with the government’s children as punishment. Then she executes Coin without even asking someone else’s opinion much less giving her a fair trial. So much for the value of life.

She winds up with Peeta, but it doesn’t feel like she chooses him. It more like he’s the last one standing. She even compares him to a dandelion. Is there really no other flower to choose besides the weed that lawn enthusiasts wipe out with chemicals every spring?

Maybe that’s realistic, that experienced adults instead of a 17-year-old lead a nation to freedom. Maybe it’s sensible to settle for a man who understands you even if you’re not in love. Maybe it’s natural to go insane when you lose everything. But young people, especially girls, need a real heroine. They need someone who can set personal trouble aside to focus on the task at hand. They need someone who holds out for the best guy even if that means she’s alone. They need someone who can battle in a man’s world and win.

If I ever have a daughter, The Hunger Games trilogy is going on the list of books I’d prefer she not read, right after Snow White.

Summer Recap

It’s been six months since my last post. For the sake of my mental health, it’s time to stop the self-deprecation by either deleting this blog or updating it. So, here’s a summer recap.

MAY

- Visited the homeland

When I landed in Chicago, the heartland of America. Josh and I fell silent and took in the . . . magnitude . . . of everyone before he turned to me and said, “Is it just me or--”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “Everyone looks giant.”

Turns out, the idea that Asians are short is just a stereotype. Americans, on the other hand, are about three times bigger than is natural.

Many people asked if we plan to return to the US, and I said yes. I love Taiwan, but there’s something tiresome about always being the foreigner. As accepting as people are, as assuring as it is to save double what we did in Boston without even trying, as easy as it is to get from metropolis to mountain range to sea coast, I feel displaced. Not quite like a fish out of water – more like a cockroach in the sunlight. I can’t fully communicate with people in their native language, or talk about books or Dexter in the same way, or correctly order dry noodles instead of soup noodles.

Still, when we landed in Taiwan, I felt at home. When I sat down at my desk on my first day back at work, I realized that I could live here for the rest of my life and be perfectly content. But in the US, among friends and family and with the right job, I can be fulfilled.

Of course, being the fattest female I see on a regular basis over here could have something to do with that.

JUNE

- Competed in the Dragon Boat Festival race

My mother erupted into side-splitting laughter over this. Let’s just say, physical exertion has never been my forte. And it was intense — two-hour trainings four times a week – but developing arm muscles was thrilling. Not that I have them anymore, but it was fun while it lasted.

We finished 15th out of 84 teams in the first heat. Not too shabby.

- Celebrated Josh and I’s third wedding anniversary (!!!)

We went to Flavors, a Swedish restaurant, which is the first place we’ve dropped over US$100 on a meal since leaving Boston. But it was well worth it just to see Josh do snapas (i.e. shots and raw fish).

JULY

- Finished two textbooks and (almost) all of their accompanying materials

Summer is supposed to be a time of fun in the sun and tequila, but for me, work has been an ever-present demand. (In fact, when I reminded my head editor I’d be leaving for the States a few weeks before my departure date, I had to remind her that $1300 non-refundable flight tickets are absolute, regardless of met or unmet work deadlines.) Last week, I was under the delusion that we were done writing, editing, and proofing all the materials—student books, teacher’s guides, interactive CD-roms, quizzes, and worksheets—until my boss announced we had one thing left: test-writing. Which I’ve discovered is pretty much the worst thing about educational publishing. But all in all, it’s a satisfying job.



- Went to the Hohaiyan Rock Festival on Fulong Beach

The highlight: 320,000 people on a two-mile strip of beach jamming, with plenty of Taiwan Beer and food vendors to go along. I was so busy having fun I didn’t take pictures.

The downside: our group camped, which was cool, except we stayed up until 3:00 and half the campground was awake at 5:00, which was not cool.

- Finished the Hunger Games trilogy

More on that later. Hint: Katniss Everdeen is a class-A idiot.

AUGUST

- Enjoying my first typhoon holiday today

Other than a blown-out screen and lack of water pressure, no catastrophes here. We’re passing our rain-induced isolation by watching the Olympics and showering in the rain.

And now I’m off to watch the 1974 Chinatown and drink wine out of my coffee mug. This day keeps getting better.