Big Pimpin'

So the other day I was sitting in The Cheesecake Factory at the mall, squeezed between the flower girl and the best man at my cousin's rehearsal dinner.

It had been two days since I flew home from The Adventure and I was looking at my super-sized plate of pasta and 32-ounce bottomless 7UP wondering how things could get more American when the Best Man leaned over to me and said, 'You know, my wife and I are kind of scandalous.'

Wink.

In my book, this is both an excellent and creepy way to start a conversation.

'Oh really? Do you have a young girl living in a backyard tomb that you've indoctrinated as part of your religious cult that worships brussel sprouts and cottage cheese?'

'Not exactly… but you're close.'

They weren't running from a Las Vegas bounty hunter. They hadn't ever been molested by aliens. They weren't trafficking orphans out of Lesotho to farm hydroponic rhubarb. Frankly, how interesting could a woodwind musician and a clinical psychologist be?

'I'm plum out of ideas, man. What's your scandal?'

He got real quiet and told me he'd have to whisper it in my ear, and nodded to the 9-year-old to my left.

'I'm dating my wife's girlfriend.'

Umm… what? I laughed it off, like I hear this sort of confession every time I order penne primavera, whatevs. Across the table his wife, also the Matron of Honor, gave me the same wink.

'What's with the winks you guys?'

'And I have another girlfriend, but she has another boyfriend, too. They are all my people. I care so much about my people.'

Okay, this was infinitely more interesting than my overdue parking tickets theory.

Confused, I asked to see a flow chart. Instead, he showed me photos of His People together in a Seattle park.

There are five members of His People: the Best Man, his wife, their mutual girlfriend, another girlfriend of the Best Man, and her boyfriend. They were posed couple by couple, with one girl sitting in the middle sort of looking up dejectedly at the others embracing, probably kicking herself for not signing up for a partner on family photo day.

That's how His People, um, swing it. Heh. You have to calendar which night you want a certain partner, and stick to it. Otherwise, there could be 'issues'.

'Well, sometimes there is jealousy, but it doesn't happen very often. Don't worry, you'll get to meet the girls tomorrow - Bob can't make it, unfortunately.' He nudged me in the arm. Then he gave me The Look.

You know The Look. It's the one that means, 'I want you to join my polyamorous world of fantasy fiction-loving theatre people, hope you have your Grendle's Modor costume in your backpack.'

Oh. My. God.

The Big Love crew was coming to the wedding? The one in my mother's backyard? Did she know? Once she did, what words would The Diplomat come up with to make everyone more okay with the medieval swingers club congregating by the hydrangeas?

This was going to be... awesome!

I sat with my brother, B, and pointed out all the players in His People during the ceremony.

'So that's Big Pimpin'?' he asked, pointing out the Best Man who was bedecked in a dapper Shakespearean suit, sweating in the 82-degree summer sun. He fit in fine with the ye olde theme to the bridal party - even the groom wore a top hat and black velveteen cape. It was fab.

'Wait, so that guy has three chicks here?' Brother B was trying to wrap his head around the implications.

'No, they aren't all lovers, like not all at once. I don't think. I don't really know, but can we talk about me? What am I supposed to say when they ask me to visit Poly-wood?'

'No offense, Jules, but you're not their type. You're not a Wiccan or whatever, and you don't even read Harry Potter.'

I followed His People around the reception, trying to suss out who had signed up for whom that day. Girlfriend One was a fair-skinned redhead who stole some snuggles from the Matron of Honor in the living room. Girlfriend Two had kinkier curls and the same morose sort of demeanor in person as she did posing solo in the family photo. Somebody needs a hug.

Dinner, cake, dancing, then pouf - the whole night had passed without any more winks or Looks. I won't lie and say I wasn't offended - don't I look like plural wife material? Maybe Girlfriend One and Two realized I was too mainstream for their alternative.

They all piled into their minivan and drove off. The Diplomat - blissfully ignorant - said, 'Doesn't your cousin just have the nicest friends? I'd like to be a part of that group.'

'Really mom? You'll want to rephrase that. They're pretty scandalous.'

South Beach (Bum) Diet

The Diplomat always told me I was a special person and have many talents in varying disciplines.

It's true. My skill set looks like this:

Fair: reading maps; identifying constellations; emptying the dishwasher

Good: shuffling cards; navigating airports; walking without purpose

Needs improvement: wanderlust

She recently asked me would that wanderlust ever be satiated and will I ever just settle down in one place, please?

Well, mom, I have good news.

It takes a special person willing to sit in the sunshine on a white Thai beach, watching the hours pass with virtually no thought running through the head besides, 'Where has that fire-dancing cabana boy gone with my caipirinha?'

Great: beach bum

Finally! A marketable skill!

Seriously guys, it's true. When you find something you love, you never work another day in your life.

Around the end of the second week in my new calling, I realized it was my life's work. And I loved my new job, I challenged myself to do nothing on the beach for 30 days, committing by way of new sun cream, new sunnies and a new book for the tough work days ahead. (I can hear some of you arguing that a book is technically 'doing' something, but I can assure you my second-hand Harper 'Modern Classic' is the antithesis of serious thought).

I was happily blobbing along in the azure tropics, when one day clouds rolled in and it didn't stop raining for six days. Maybe you heard about it? Hundreds rescued by the Thai navy, villagers swept away in mudslides, trains cancelled, airports closed...

It was at this exciting time that all the SPF went to my head and i came down with what I self-diagnosed as strep throat. It was just me, the mosquitoes and the amoxicilin in the bungalow watching it pour on paradise.

My hut mate, a fancy lady I will call The Brazilian Princess, would periodically walk in, survey my sickness, announce, 'I don't think it's fatal. But it's too damp in here, that's why you're sick. This isn't what we're paying for, Julie. I'll just let the owner know...'

The owner was not unhappy to see us leave after we changed bungalows three times, The Princess letting Paolo know the drainage inefficiencies of each waterlogged thatched roof. Also, could he do something about the banana leaves that kept falling into our outdoor bathroom? They're clogging the drain. Grazie.

When I met The BP, she was complaining. We were on the same boat in the Galapagos and she was going on to the captain that she'd been promised her own cabin. 'I can't sleep in a room with a snorer... That's not what I paid for,' and she'd look disparagingly at her bespectacled, chubby English roommate who did, in fact, breathe like a chainsaw. Even at breakfast.

It was my single cabin The Princess was after and there was no way I was giving it up to room with old snore-eyes.

A stare-off ensued and in the end I respected her gumption and she found in me a kindred princess, 'though you like to hide it by eating granola, but I know...'

It was easy to convince The BP to join me beachside. Being a lazy bum is a prerequisite to royalty the world over. As my new, esteemed colleague, I believed her reading-in-the-hammock skills were world class.

I don't know if it was the complete lack of exercise or the overdose on mango and sticky rice dishes that kept us going, but we were inspired enough to island hop in the non-flooded isles of Thailand's Andaman Sea for three solid weeks. But in the end I couldn't complete the 30-day beach diet because, well, I got bored.

That's another of my special talents.

It smells like it sounds

The game starts with all participants encircling a drum-able surface, fists pounding in unison with the finest bottle of vodka $10.50 Australian can buy laying in wait.

The 19-year-old Belgian ringleader hollers, 'What's the name of the game?'

And everybody shouts, 'Let's get fucked up!'

'I can't HEAR you - what is the NAME of the GAME?'

This time, with emphasis: 'Let's get FUCKED UP!'

Then follows a series of deeply complex hand gestures and count-offs. When somebody, er, fucks up, he or she drinks. Okay, everybody drinks because... well, that's the name of the game.

It was a charming reintroduction to the world where I meet really nice people, who later vomit all over the sink while I'm brushing my teeth.

Hosteling: where everyone is young, free and most importantly, ignorant to all standards of hygiene.

Would you like a bed bug infestation to complement your new STI? Done!

When The Diplomat said she'd come and meet me halfway through my adventure, she had a few stipulations:

1. No bunk beds
2. No partying
3. No tours of prisons

'I don't know what all this hostel business is, but if it smells like it sounds, your mother is not interested.'

See, The Diplomat doesn't get fucked up.

So, begrudgingly, I accepted her offer to stay in hotels where actual cleaners use actual cleaning products that actually clean.

There was no mold on the shower curtain because there is no shower curtain in a 5-star hotel! There were no smelly French people snoring in 3-part harmony or Cuban girls having epically bad sex from a five foot distance (por favor, amiga, just fake it already!)

Just days beforehand, mom checked us into Melbourne's Windsor Hotel (shaped like a castle, clever). This was class. Even the queen has stayed there! Beyond the high tea and our butler, I was most impressed the Windsor had a pillow menu.

'Yes, Miss Lauderbaugh,' said housekeeping (housekeeping!), 'would you prefer the aromatherapeutic lavender-infused goose-down or an extra firm anti-snore contour cushion?'

A contour cushion?

Let's get fluffed up!

Half a year gone already...

Ian Thorpe is not a queer

My mom has always had a million friends. It never surprises me that upon walking off the plane, she'll know the most detailed life stories of her seat mate (twice divorced), the flight attendant (working overtime - again) and the single mother in the second row (post-partum, what a shame).

I call her The Diplomat because she has this ability to like and respect everybody, a laissez faire approach to being judgemental that I find maddening.

If had dinner with Hitler, she might say, 'Well, I don't agree with him, but I do understand where he's coming from...'

So I wasn't surprised at all when I left her alone for 10 minutes at the Sydney Opera House to find she had made two new friends on our second day in Australia.

Meet Nice Aussie Mum and Cool Aussie Daughter. Both extremely friendly and FUN, Mum is retired from working with disabled kids and Daughter is a pediatric nurse.

Salt of the earth types, they tucked us two Yanks into their proverbial Aussie marsupial pouch. Okay, it was a Ford hatchback. And to The Diplomat's great delight, drove us all over Sydney's suburbs not one afternoon, but two!

I was impressed. How many people give up their days off to be kind to complete strangers? Americans, no less? We were really hitting it off when Nice Aussie Mum said:

'Do you have many Muslims in Seattle? We do here, and it's a real problem.'

Hmm. Silence. The awkward kind. She was referring to a group of ladies walking down the street, heads covered, pushing baby carriages.

I prepared what I thought was a witty retort to a rather ridiculous comment, when The Diplomat shot me a look that said, 'Keep your mouth shut, young child, these are our new friends. Don't ruin it!'

I frowned and listened to her non-answer about there being a number of mosques in Seattle. According to The Diplomat, whenever one is encountered with an uncomfortable (read: racist) question, it is best to bob and weave with statistics, then quickly change the subject.

'And what are those funny trees with the green leaves?'

Thusly, we moved on to tropical deciduous shrubbery.

The tour of Sydney continued. The Harbor Bridge! Yorktown! The Ian Thorpe International Swimming Center!

'Say, where does Ian Thorpe live?' I asked.

Ian, ahem, ‘The Thorpedo,’ and I go way back to the days where he battled Pieter van den Hoogenband - my Dutch dreamboat - in the Olympic pool. Ian and I have an unfulfilled destiny, of course, and I figured being in his hometown was my best chance.

'I think he lives in Los Angeles now. He's turned awfully queer, hasn't he?'

The word queer slipped off her tongue like she was trying to spit out sour milk.

Actually, I can think of worse things than my future husband having perfect eyebrows, a Beverly Hills mansion and a collection of scandalously low-slung Speedos in the closet. Even if he sleeps in there with them.

But I hate the word queer and was going to explain why when The Diplomat knocked over my soapbox, offering to buy everyone lunch.

‘Dim sum?’ Cool Daughter asked her Mum. They both snickered.

‘Hmm, wonder who’s going to be working there! Oh, wow, more Asians!’

We went for Mexican instead. My guess is Australians have very limited knowledge of Mexico and its stereotypes (or even what Mexican food should taste like). In this case, I was thankful for their ignorance and ate my enchiladas in peace, starting to forgive their casual racism.

After we ate, mom fell asleep in the backseat of the car, snoring along lightly as we drove through a beautiful public park lined with eucalyptus trees. Picnickers played with rugby balls and little doggies fetched on a nice, sunny day. It was so lovely! And then...

'There's some Abos for you there, Julie,' Nice Aussie Mum said. 'Well, at least they're with their families. That's nice, I suppose. It is a public park.'

‘Abo’ is Australian for ‘Aboriginal’, and its use also identifies the speaker as ‘scared of black people.’

From my travels, I know racism exists in every country, but I had kind of thought Australia was less… like the United States?

Mom snorted loudly, momentarily waking herself up and mumbling, 'I'm so sorry... I just have... to take a little... nap.' She took a deep breath and wiped out again.

I seized The Diplomat's moment of low blood sugar weakness.

'Say there, do you, um, not like Aboriginals? Or Muslims? Just wondering, 'cause you keep commenting on it...'

These super nice people, being extremely kind to the foreigners in the back seat, sort of laughed it off and explained all the politics of Aboriginal issues I obviously wasn't privy to, like how Aboriginals suck off the government, how the Stolen Generation thing was unfair all around, how they’re all drunks anyway and...

'I see. And the Muslims? Do you hate them as individuals, or as a whole group?'

The Diplomat stirred. I was losing time.

'I mean, god, what would you do if you ever met an Aboriginal Muslim? Wouldn't that be crazy! Especially if they were queer?'

The Diplomat awoke after I said this and apologized loudly for snoring, interrupting my moment of socially aware indignation. She was onto me, even in her sleep.

'Gee, what does that number '70' on the sign there mean?'

It was the speed limit sign.

'Oh, how interesting,' The Diplomat said, looking at me sideways.

Another classic save, mom.

I kept my mouth shut and kept The Diplomat happy.

Sand, surf and sea turtles

I have decided to start working for the Belize tourism office. Not only did one week snorkeling in the azure waters of the caribbean do wonders for my peace of mind and spirit, but I also have shinier fingernails and better skin!

I took an early bus out of the jungle and headed for the land of white sandy beaches and coconut rum. When I arrived in Caye Caulker, a band of friendly ´rastitutes´ were on the welcome wagon. For those who aren´t familiar, a ´rastitute´ is a cross between a Rasta guy (Bob Marley obviously being the most famous) and a prostitute. According to the middle-aged guy from New Jersey selling fried shrimp on his hibachi by the beach, rastitutes love white women because we´re independent and we have more money.



Hence, the entire week was very good for my ego. Because my mother is reading this email, I will not go into detail about the, um, compliments I received, but let´s just say these gentleman were the most creative with their metaphors than any others I have encountered.

I spent my days mostly soaking up the sun and swimming with the fishes. I went on two snorkeling tours of Belize´s impressive and protected reef. Snorkeling in Hawaii is fun, but snorkeling with moray eels, parrotfish, sharks, sting rays and a sea cow - also known as a manatee – is way cooler. And I am very happy to announce I swam with 3 – YES 3! - sea turtles in Belize. I was so excited to see them that I chased them around the reserve until the boat yelled at me to come back in.

At night it´s easy to eat like a king in Belize – I had massive crab legs, lobster and lots of aforementioned coconut rum. In fact, maybe too much one night. I had what you might call an intestinal malfunction one day and had to stay indoors with Michael Phelps until everything, er, flushed out of my system. Not exactly the best day of my life, but I could think of worse places to get sick than on a chilled-out Caribbean cove with a sea breeze and reggae wafting through the window in equal measure.

I had only planned to stay for a couple of days and ended up in Belize for a full week. I felt so calm and happy and relaxed that I made a bad decision. I decided to leave.

Realizing I only had a few days left on my trip, and considering the promise I made to myself to visit the baby sea turtle refugee camp on Guatemala´s Pacific coast, I booked a bus back to Flores and an overnighter back to Guatemala City.

I knew leaving the island was a mistake when I got off the ferry in Belize City and missed my first bus connection because it was overbooked. Belize City is hot, dingy and industrial and not the safest place in the world to hang out on your own. I got bumped to the next bus coming from Mexico and had to wait 4 hours while the Rasta dude - hired by the bus company to handle our luggage - kept giving me hugs and calling me Susan.



When the bus did arrive, it had befallen some hard times north of the border. A boulder had hit the glass windshield of this old converted American school bus – and I mean old, like one foot in the grave – knocking out the window on the passenger side. Luckily, the window was still intact on the driver´s side. Therefore, it was deemed drivable.

But there we were, a group of gringo vagabonds, driving a dilapidated dinosaur back through the jungle for 6 laborious hours in what has become a rather dangerous part of Guatemala, wind whizzing through the gaping hole in the front of the bus and smacking my face with unsuspecting insects. The extra air conditioning was okay at first when it was still daylight. But as soon as night fell, it got cold and billowy in all the wrong ways.

I would now like to take this opportunity to thank my sister, Jana, for sending me a link to an article about an American man who was hacked to death with a machete in front of his wife by four banditos while vacationing on the Guatemalan border with Belize. The details of that story were not lost on me whilst on the most pathetic bus in recorded history lumbering through the lonely jungle to civilization.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, Guatemala is a dangerous place. There are muggings, rapes and kidnappings everyday. Most Guatemalan people live in abject poverty and act out of desperation to improve their station in life. But may I remind you there are muggings, rapes and kidnappings every day in the United States, in Canada, in England, in what we consider our superior Western World.

I encourage you to not let fear dictate how or where you travel or how you fundamentally live your life. Fear is the scrouge of our society. And I refuse to make decisions based on the fearmongerers who probably have a vested interest in seeing my treasured vacation dollars be spent in my own backyard.

Still, I slept with my wallet and passport under my clothes on the nightbus back to Guatemala City. You know, you have to be prepared and stuff…

24 hours after I left the Caribbean, I arrived in Monterrico, a tiny coastal village on Guatemala´s Paific side with black sand, a strong riptide and tortugas – TURTLES! At last, I made it and none too soon – the turtle refugee camp was having a turtle watching trek that very evening for volunteers.

So after night fell, I marched along with young university marine life students down the windy beach, with eyes glued to the surf, looking for these ancient shelled tortugas to make the arduous climb from the surf up the embankment to dig a nest, drop the eggs and haul it back into the ocean.

We walked. We walked. We walked.

For an hour and a half we walked. And nothing. No turtles. Usually only 4 or 5 come up to lay their eggs per night anyway, so the odds were stacked against us.

But then – hark! – a cell phone call confirmed a turtle was down by Johnny´s bar digging her nest. Johnny´s bar was precisely where we started our journey down the beach…

So we ran. We ran. We ran.

And at last! I saw this beautiful mama turtle laying her eggs, which were promptly swept up by the volunteers for safe incubating at the center. A small crowd of turtle lovers mixed with a larger group of pretty much drunk Guatemalan teenagers who came to Monterrico to flirt. Why this turtle decided to lay her eggs in front of a crowded bar playing really annoying house music is beyond me, but turtles work in mysterious ways.

So all missions were accomplished in Central America. I´m flying home on Wednesday to somewhat sad circumstances – on Saturday, mom informed me that our beloved blond cocker spaniel, Sugar, had died. She was 16, I think. She was my favorite pet in the whole world – way better than any turtle – and I´m very sad to know she won´t be waggling her stumpy tail when I arrive home next. But she had a good life with our family – in one especially melodramatic moment, dad even called her ´the only daughter that never left me´. Indeed, she was faithful to the end. And I will miss her endlessly.