RIP My Little Yellow Dog

This week’s been rough. I had to give the OK to put down My Girl Kocur, and it’s even worse when you have to do it long distance.

Kokadoke, who according to the Dearborn Animal Shelter was about 12 but according to Wendy could have been older since shelters fudge on ages, had had a rough few weeks.

She visited the vet just after Christmas and was diagnosed with hip dysplasia, basically losing control of her right hip. She became a daily drug user and the vet told us she’d have good days and bad.

Unfortunately, it went downhill from there. Two weeks ago, I Skyped her in an effort to cheer her up and make me feel better. Unfortunately, neither one of those happened. In the past when I’ve Skyped her, she has jumped up in whatever parent’s lap had the headphones and looked all around, trying to find her momma. She’s known it’s me.

Not this time. She was sad and lethargic, and watching her trying to stand up made me cry. Hardwood floors aren’t kind when you’re trying to drag yourself up.

And it got worse. I called on a weekend, I think, and by Thursday the next week Daddy emailed and said Koke had lost the use of both her legs. Already, she had to be lifted on and off the bed and this just made it worse. She couldn’t drag herself farther than the porch. He said it was time.

After going back and forth with Zippy and Wendy, I finally gave the OK.

But once there, Kocur, still in the car, fought being muzzled, so Daddy figured she wasn’t ready yet. We got a new breath of hope when the vet later suggested a laser treatment, sort of like chiro, that had done wonders for other dogs.

They offered a package deal and we opted to try it on Saturday. Turns out, Kokey had two herniated disks (I am not sure about the hip dysplasia, but this time she had X-rays) and went through the first round of what we thought would be a package of six.

But it didn’t take. She got substantially worse (even turning down bacon) and on Monday my parents took her in. She didn’t fight this time and went quickly. She was ready.

For a mere $61, you can off your best friend. Not a comfort.

Obviously, I am upset, not only because she’s gone and I’ll never see her again, but because I wasn’t there when she needed me.

But she would have forgiven me. Dogs are like that. Whatever you do, they love you unconditionally. And they have lousy memories for bad things their people do to them.

Like send them to live with their grandparents when you’re working 70 hours a week or go to Morocco for PC. Doesn’t matter. You come back, your best friend forgives you.

I've had "Love Me Like My Dog" going through my head for a week.

I found Kocur on Petfinder.com, which is a fantastic site. I searched for “beagle,” but Kocur wasn’t so much a beagle. She was nothing but a pound dog, a Detroit stray.

When I was hunting for a pal, I visited her first. Not seeing the “do not open cages” sign, I saw her and joined her, playing catch with a ball she had. Sold, I was.

But I had to think about it, and alert David, my roommate at the time, we were getting a new housemate. I remember I got home and sent out emails with her Petfinder link, saying this was going to be my baby.

I don’t remember who it was, but someone replied saying something like, “Oh, you already got her; I see the ‘adopted’ banner on the page.’”

NOOOOO! I hadn’t. Someone *else* came after me and stole my dog.

I mourned Young Yeller. She was the one for me, and I knew it.

A week or so later, the Dearborn Animal Shelter folks called me, telling me she’d been brought back, was I still interested.

Of course I was! I headed out there right after work, not even bothering to ask *why* she’d been brought back.

When I got there, I saw my baby, all sad in a case bearing a sign that said “Beware, Bad Dog” or something like that. Turns out, she’d bitten someone and had been returned. She was going to be put down then had I not come for her.

That night, we played fetch and hung out. Oh, and I took her walking and she not only nipped someone but also got bit by some other dog. I carried her home because she was scared.

She came named as Kaycee, but no way was that going to stay. I needed a “K” name and a colleague suggested Kocur. It fit, although I didn’t know it at the time.

When I tried to enroll her at obedience school, she attacked the teacher. When I alerted Joe Kocur to this (because I knew somehow he’d find out --*cough* Duff *cough*), he laughed all the way down the hall at Joe Louis Arena, saying *he’d* never been convicted.

Kocur’s first weekend with me, we went to Red Wings camp in Traverse City and I freaked her out because I was screaming at whatever FSU football game was on TV in the hotel room.

She got her payback, though. When I left her with my roommate (different roommate, Scott was clueless) on another FSU football weekend, he reported that she had been “great” all weekend and had “stayed in her room” and “been a good girl.” Well, as I climbed the stairs to my room and turned the corner, she had DESTROYED the comforter and pillows. Vengeance was hers, for sure.

I bought her a kennel, foolishly thinking that she’d like her new bed. She loved her new bed, but it wasn’t the kennel -- she opted for my bed instead. I’d come home and she’d be *inside* the sheets, her head on my pillow.

As soon as I'd leave for work, she'd run back up the stairs and go back to sleep, a fact I'd suspected for awhile in Detroit and confirmed one day when I forgot something and had to run back home to get it.

Toys were a big part of her world, starting with my stuffed animal tiger rug, which became hers. My youthful Missy K O’Cur photos are in Florida, but I have a great shot of her chewing that thing, which was bigger than she was (at least at the time).

I’d bring her toys when I came down for FSU games. She went for the noses first. Her little blonde brain had a lot of trouble processing the elephant, though it delighted her. She had a thing for pulling the plastic eyes off, too. And I'll probably still be unearthing stuffed animal carcasses in the Havana backyard 10 years from now.

Like lots of dogs, she was terrified of thunder. The Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve were the most-feared days of her life, followed by thunderstormy afternoons. Lord, try having a 34-pound monster sitting on your chest in bed and under the covers as she pants straight into your face. Not fun.

Even though Kocur hasn’t been physically with me since I have been in Jakarta, I miss her. And I know when I go back to Florida, it’s going to start all over again. I’ll see her chair and cry again, and probably will find her toys under this piece of furniture or that one for years to come.

She would remember where the toys were, too. I’d come back and tell her to “get Toy” (this was a proper noun) and she’d drag something back a few minutes later. Or she’d just walk over to some piece of furniture and stare under it, then at me, willing me to get down on all fours and fight the dust (and knee pain) to fish out something she’d left there three months earlier.

In that way, she was bright. In others, well, let’s just say she must have taken after her father. Not something she got from my side of the family, for sure.

I’d stand hidden in the bathroom, out of sight between two rooms in Havana. I’d call her and she’d run from one room to the other, trying to find me. No matter how many times I did this, she would never think to look in the bathtub, where I was standing.

I could go on and on, but I won’t. The screen’s too blurry. I miss my old yeller dog.

I am thankful that both my parents took such good care of her, with Daddy sitting with her that last weekend and Zippy not minding (or pretending to mind) that Kokey pooped in the bed. Daddy also took the photos posted, so I have some of her last days. Wendy’s pretty much been counseling me through this, too.

And I am glad to know real pet people who know what I am going through. Some folks just don’t get it. I’m really glad I know people who do.

Thank you for indulging me.

Toes in the sand will have to wait

Well, I jotted off to Malaysia for the third time, which used up my Delta credit. All told, including the balance of the plane ticket (I didn’t have enough left to cover that third ticket in full), I think I spent less than $150.

The plan went awry a bit, but I guess it wouldn’t be a true getaway if it didn’t. My flights to date had been so on time, I forgot sometimes they’re late, but that’s what happened.

Instead of arriving to the hostel at 11:30 p.m. like I had twice before, I was still at the train station at 1:30 a.m. Luckily, Suzy, the nice host at Traveller’s Palm, waited up for me.

So I couldn’t bear to ask her to wake up early for me to head out to Penang, which had been my original plan. Buses left at 7, 8, 9,10 and 10:30, and I’d hoped to be on the 7.

Well, so long as it spring eternal. I wound up getting on the 10 a.m. bus, which should have mathematically gotten me in around 2, but somehow I got there at 4. Ah well. I’d known it would be a quick vacation and not so much a relaxing one. The point, again, was just to get out of Jakarta and it worked for that.

When your trip’s goal was simply to stick your toes in the sand, it’s going to be a pretty modest trip.

Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to meet the goal, as I was a ways away from the sand beach, but I did the next best thing, which was to jaunt over to the jetty, where I plopped myself down on the rocks and listened to “Red Headed Stranger” and watched a couple of fisherman, lots of trash, a couple of chum pieces and then a live lizard entertain me for about an hour.

I guess I was an odd site, because this little stop was decidedly NOT a tourist spot. Two police officers came by to check me out, likely because they thought I’d made a wrong turn. Nope, I just sat under a tree, kicked off the Chacos and chilled out.

And that really was a highlight. I guess it sounds trite, but it was what the doctor ordered.

Not the chiropractor, unfortunately. Somehow I managed to throw out my back the first night and yikes. I really could barely walk, so it was nice to just sit at times.

Between that and the horrid blister I got on the top of my foot – right on the bunion scar – well, I am still in a bit of walking pain. And I did my last chiro visit this morning, so uh-oh on that.

Got sunburned, too, but not really all that bad. The weather is just so much nicer than Jakarta, likely because there are more green spaces and less air pollution.

Unlike last trip, not once did I eat in a restaurant. Instead, I opted for the food stalls. I have no idea what the food is, but basically if you put enough rice around it, I’ll eat it. I think I had Chinese, Indian and Thai, but I’m not really sure. I did miss out on a burger, which is kind of sad. I could use a nice hunk of meat about right now.

My last evening in Penang, I was set to take the overnight bus back to KL and then have a morning there before flying out. Considering I made no reservations in advance, it was a tad risky, but it worked out.

That last evening, it rained, and as I was wandering back to the hostel (another good choice – Penang Guesthouse) and trying to find the store that had this shirt I wanted, I witnessed a motorcycle accident. A man was driving and in the rain, he just skidded into another parked bike, sending his wife flying.

Fortunately, unlike in Jakarta, riders in Malaysia wear helmets or it would have been really, really bad. She pretty much landed on the side of her head, but she not only had the helmet but also a face shield. You could see where it had scraped – it looked like she’d stopped a slapshot.

The poor thing was incredibly dizzy and petty much fell over. I and her husband got her to sit down and a couple of shopkeepers brought a chair for her. She was *really* out of it and in pain, but after about half an hour she was back in her right mind. She worked at a hospital and knew the importance of X-rays, so I’m sure she’ll be fine.

I sat with her about 45 minutes as her husband tried to find alternate transportation. Their bike was OK – a broken rearview – but no way was she able to get back on. She was amazingly dizzy and said it hurt badly through her jaw.

I was just so relieved she was wearing a helmet. I mean, that could have been tragic.

The little time setback was enough to make me miss the dinner rush as well as the shirt. I never found the store again, so I guess it was closed by that time. I’m sure I’ll eventually find another clothing item that works for me.

The overnight bus back was all it was cracked up to be, including the freaking frigid temperature. I did not sleep more than one hour, if that, and was so cold it was insane. I pulled out my extra set of clothes and put the pants on up to my knees (I’d brought two pairs of capris) and pulled on the neck of the extra shirt and left my arms in. I still shivered all the way back.

And of course, we made great time on the way back. And what do you do in KL at 5:30 in the morning? Well, in my case, you sit in what is sort of a concrete park/bus station area/homeless person domain and try to get warm, which I discovered is hard even in tropical zones before the sun comes up.

There was a 24-hour McDonald’s right across the way, but I figured at that hour the AC would be blasting specifically to keep riffraff like me out, so I hung out and continued to listen to the MP3, although by that time I think I was on Phil Vassar.

At some random point, a man with a broom shooed me out, saying he needed to clean. I noted of all the people who were taking up less-than-valuable real estate, I was the only one he moved. I was the only white one and the only one who was awake. Both/either could have been factors.

So at that point, maybe 6:30 or so, it was still somewhat dark and chilly, but I decided to occupy McDonald’s anyway. And sure enough, it was darn cold, but they had hot htea.

My attempt to get a value meal (tea and hash brown) fell through and I just got the tea, but it turned out to be a bargain. Free refills, which is nice when you’re trying to warm up and wait out the sunrise.

I sat upstairs with what appeared to be more WASPy folks fresh off some kind of travel. They had wireless items, though. But I had tea, and that was important.

After four cups, I was pretty much ready to go except for the fact the McDonald’s staff was cleaning the bathroom. Do the math. I opted to wait it out and was entertained in the process.

During the whole time the woman cleaned the bathroom – which had to have taken 45 minutes – no fewer than seven guys came up to try to use it. She turned them all away. One guy plopped down next to me and tried to wait it out and I could tell by his fidgeting he was in a hurry. He would up leaving the building, probably to pee on the side of it.

The staff member did allow one woman with a small child in as she was cleaning, but the men were tossed out. For whatever sadistic reason, I thought that was funny.

After waiting out the facilities and grabbing a fifth cup of tea for the road, I wandered Chinatown again, though I didn’t eat there. The tea pretty much filled me up, so I waited until I got back to my old stomping grounds near the hostel to eat.

I walked the fancy schmancy mall and was again unimpressed (and unable to find a reasonable sports bra) and headed out the door, where I encountered all the painted bears.

By that point, it was nearing lunch and I figured I should give Little India one last go before heading to the airport, even though I was still stuffed from the fried rice I'd had as a late breakfast.

So I took one for the team and tried to find Little India, but I took a wrong turn. I’d been a little put off because on the monorail some Kenyan I’d never met before essentially professed his eternal love for me, so once we got off I just started walking.

I missed Little India but there are food stalls everywhere and I just wandered into one and said to bring me something. It had rice and was pretty darn good, although that time the tea didn’t do it for me. Too milky.

Basically, though, I feel I’ve pretty much eaten my way around Malaysia, although I’ll be damned if I’ve eaten anything Malaysian. I’m not even sure what that means, but I can guarantee you, if you’re hungry, that is a really good place to go.

Da Bears

I'm back from Malaysia for the third time, and likely the charmed final time as my Delta credit is finished.

Will do a proper wrapup with photos later, but for now, here are three from a display in front of one of the Kuala Lumpur malls.

I've no idea of what the display was for except some kind of world peace. They had all these bears painted and lined up. I started snapping away and then realized there was one for every country, though I'm not sure what the Mendoza Line was for being recognized. I didn't search, for example, for East Timur or South Sudan.

More photos are to come, but for now, here are the three from the countries where I've lived. And if you can't tell what's the U.S., Morocco and Indonesia, well, you're just not trying.


Click to enlarge if you're so inclined.

A redneck fix

Made my first home repair yesterday. Yeah, I’m in an apartment building but there’s no Schneider anywhere. I’m on my own for repairs, even if they’re a result of stupidity on the part of the builder.

And that was the case on my shower head holder. I noticed recently it had been kind of falling down and it finally just came out of the wall. It’s basically just a piece of plastic – two, really – that were screwed into the ceramic tile.

Well, one screw, anyway. The other was a useless limb, because they’d drilled the hole in the wrong place. The top one, of course, so it drooped, which eventually pulled the anchored-in screw on the bottom out, taking the whole thing with it.

So I had to get this fixed, which entailed an off-day trip to Giant. Not realizing at the time the screw holes were off, I figured I’d just get some caulk and anchor the screws back in the holes and move on with life.

So I did a little pre-shopping done – I still have to go back today – after perusing the two home improvement aisles at my faithful grocery-and-more store. I got a tube of clear silicone for the fix, just over a buck or so.

Once I got home and ate one of the Polo packs, I put on the music – still into “Red Headed Stranger” – and got to work.

As soon as I took the thing down, though, I realized the screw holes were off and the silicone alone wasn’t going to swing it. The top screw is useless and the anchor for the bottom one broke, rendering it pretty much useless as well.

This not being Morocco or someplace with a Lowe’s or a Home Depot, I had no idea of where to go to get what I needed, not that I was sure what that was. I first tried to just silicone the bottom screw in but realized that wasn’t going to hold. I needed something solid to screw the screw itself into.

My apartment’s not too big. Basically, I don’t collect stuff that might be of use later on. I have what I need and that’s it. I mean, yeah, I have two plastic dog bones, but mostly the stuff has an immediate purpose. So it’s not like I have this Tim Taylor tool chest lying around I can bust open and pull out whatever. And the dog bones weren’t going to cut it.

But let’s face it, I’m from the South and I can come up with some kind of redneck fix. White trash, I’m OK with that. I mean, when Wendy told me they were having a redneck water slide at the arena after their barrel race, I couldn’t figure out how that was different from a water slide. I mean, it’s just a piece of plastic down on the lawn, right?

Oh. Right. That IS a redneck water slide. I thought it was reality. In my world, it is. Blame it on Daddy.

So I have to fix this thing on the cheap with whatever I have on hand. All I needed was something that works with a wood screw.

Oh, hey, how about wood? I just happened to have two pieces of wood, even – in the form of a pair of chopsticks from my favorite fast-food place, Yoshinoya.

This place isn’t rednecky whatsoever. It’s Japan’s oldest fast food restaurant, I think, founded in 1899. And it’s Jakarta’s saving grace, at least in my eyes.

They have rice bowls. This means they are my friend. Mostly I have the beef but lately I’ve downed the beef/veggie combo. I tried the teriyaki chicken and it was OK, but I liked the beef (which is US beef) better. Especially when you dump the whole little packet of spices on it.

Usually when I eat there, I eat *there.* When you dine in (it’s in the food court, so that’s a relative term) you get a bowl of free brothy stuff. I don’t guess you can call it soup (I’m sure there’s a term for it but white trash wouldn’t know). I’m OK with eating the rice/beef/veggies with chopsticks, but when you dump the brothy stuff into the rice bowl, it becomes counter-productive to use chopsticks.

It is possible, though – you eat the solids a few bits at a time and then pick up the bowl, Morocco-style, and drink the soup. I don’t usually do that in the mall. (Usually.)

When you order takeout, you get a packet with a spoon, chopsticks and the pepper packet. At the time I ordered takeout, I used the pepper packet and my own spoon. I think the plastic one is gathering dust on my out-of-work microwave right now, but the chopsticks got tossed into the back of my utensils drawer, which has a total of six utensils in it. Seven, if I misfile the paring (only) knife.

In trying to think of something to cram in this little screw hole, I remembered the chopsticks. I have no idea why. But you know, it worked. I stuck the end in the hole, then Swiss Army Knifed it off (hey, I guess I do have more than one knife!), then repeated for the second hole.

I still couldn’t make the second screw fit, but my solution worked. I was able to screw in the bottom screw. (This is my mental mistake – I should have worked top down and used the higher hole. I imagine down the road it’ll collapse again and I’ll repeat the job, but that’s OK – I still have one chopstick, and what else can you do with one chopstick?)

I loaded up the silicone to hold the rest – three rounds – and I’m back in business.

An influx of people

Today’s a holiday for me, the first one I’ve had since something like September. There have been more holidays since then but they’ve all fallen on Sundays. We get the day before the off because we don’t publish on holiday and since we’re always off on Saturday, no bonus time.

But Happy New Year. The first day of the Chinese Year of the Dragon starts tomorrow, giving me a day off today.

I’ve been looking forward to it, especially since our next holiday, Mohammed’s birthday (or maybe death day, I’m not sure) is also on a Sunday.

So I opted to go all out and do something different today. I finally met up with the other Morocco RPCV! He’s probably been here for something like six months now, and when I found out I’d be off I dropped a note and amazingly, our schedules meshed this time. (He leaves shortly for three weeks or so, so good timing!)

The chosen place was the same place I’ve visited with a work colleague, where I got that amazing cupcake and other assorted sweets. It’s kind of a shopping center that’s really mostly food places.

It’s on a big main street, and last time I walked clear around to the Ambassador Mall and walked faster than the cars were going, but it still took something like 45 minutes.

On the map, it appears that it’s not too far from my apartment, but there’s no direct street. The little side streets aren’t straight and sometimes hard to maneuver and oftentimes lead to dead ends. But I thought I’d give it a shot. I mean, just the walk to the Ambassador Mall is sweat-inducing, and that’s not even the halfway point to this place.

So I sat on Google Maps for a bit and transferred a couple of alternate routes to paper, which I loaded (with my rain poncho) and carried with me. I figured it’d take 20 minutes, tops – assuming I did it right.

The first street, which had both an Indo Mart and a Circle K on it, is the main one I see from my back window, and I figured how hard could it be, really?

And for once, those weren’t famous last words.

My little map worked out late and my only error was the time estimate. The entire commute couldn’t have topped seven minutes. I was totally amazed that there is a whole new world under 10 minutes from my door. And a little miffed that it’d taken me 45 minutes or so to reach it earlier.

So I got there early, walked the little shopping center and had an A&W root beer while listening to “Red-Headed Stranger” as I waited. I’d emailed the RPCV to tell him exactly what I wearing so I wasn’t too concerned about being missed.

Turns out, he was a couple minutes late but he’d also invited some other folks, so that was cool. In all, we wound up being five – three RPCVs – and never bothered with a café or restaurant.

We just parked ourselves in front of the mini grocery store for five hours and talked. It was a fabulous passage of time, and we had spectacular weather, for once.

The food was marginal to non-existent: we each had a little round thing of cheese, some potato wafers and dried peas, then whatever we wanted to drink. The little store had it all, and when it was time for a refill, you just got up and got more of whatever.

I get bonus points for finding out the basement has a little post office in it. I know there must be a million near me, but this is the first one I’ve seen. This will come in handy, I know. It’s just a window, not a place to pick up packages, but it works.

As soon as I got back – and verifying the second monkey has now gone; this saddens me – I ran into both Grunter and a woman I’d met this morning in the fitness center. She and I had talked and she invited me to go golfing sometime. That morning, I hadn’t had my phone with me, so I gave her my number then but turned down an invite to a movie.

Then, some other guy – not Grunter, whose name is apparently James – asked me about the fitness center, too. I swear, this is how I am known in the building. Anyway, he wanted my number, too, so I went ahead and gave it to him. Since I’m on my third number already, I figure if everything goes bad, then it’s just a matter of months before he no longer has it. But he’s already texted me. Geez. Those CrackBerry addicts are a needy bunch.

So between the fitness woman and man, the four people I just met as well as four new Australian interns we have at the office, I’ve met a lot of people this week.

And I came home with sweet stuff from the bakery, too.

Joki-ing for a job

During my one week thus far on the day shift, my commute was vastly different than it is on the evening shift.

Yeah, the holes in the sidewalks are the same and the traffic is a level of hell, but there’s an added element: it’s rush hour.

Mork once said “Why do they call it rush hour when nobody moves?” Boy, that is true. I go faster on foot than some of the folks in cars.

Apparently, Jakarta has attempted to implement some efforts at trying to speed the traffic. I learned on Friday that there’s some rule that basically equates to carpooling – on certain roads, there must be three people in a car to access them during rush hour.

But I didn’t know that during my one-week on the Blessed Day Shift. And honestly, even if I did, I still wouldn’t have been able to add up the elements.

See, during both legs of that walk, I’d walk along the same main street that I always do. It’s not a huge street, but shortly past the mall with the Walmarty store, it turns into something bigger. It even has a nickname, I learned – Casablanca. (Appropriate for me, but Rabat would have been better. Casa’s a dive and don’t let Rick convince you otherwise.)

Before I turn off into the neighborhood, I am on the stretch of the road right before the road turns into something bigger. There’s lots of construction going on, too.

That week, I noticed there were more people than usual standing out on the road, looking like they were trying to catch rides. This isn’t uncommon. I’ve noticed at peak hours a lot of people look like they’re trying to bum rides, but not catch cabs. There were more on the morning walk than on the way home. They’re all locals, and I understand that. I mean, in Morocco, you could catch a ride with someone, too. People with extra time, or maybe people who want a little on the side, whatever. It’s not unusual.

But here, I thought it was insane how many people there were. I haven’t noticed anyone stopping to pick them up, either. And where were they going?

And most of the people were women with small children, like babes-in-arms. For five days, I walked and wondered where the heck these women were going in the morning. I mean, come on. Unemployment is rampant and, let’s get real, most of the women – especially in the apparent demographic these women are in – don’t work outside the home.

I couldn’t help but wonder why they were taking their kids to day care or what else they could have been doing.

They clearly weren’t begging, because not a one looked at me like they wanted money. And, let’s face it, that happens so I can tell.

They also somehow knew I wasn’t competition, like vying for the same rides. I’d smile and say hi, and they’d all say hi back. I waved at a lot of babies.

All nice folks, but I had zero understanding of what this group of women with little kids was doing out there.

So, to wind this around again, on Thursday I was editing the little thing we to every day (which is maybe three days too many) called “My Jakarta,” where you find a random person and highlight them with a Q&A.

These things are lame in almost any paper, honestly. At AP, I had to do those horrid “exchanges,” and wound up using a story some local city’s drive-thru kid and send it to the other cities, as if they didn’t have their own drive-thru kid, or lady with cancer, or guy that collects beer bottles.

The ones here are pretty lame, too, just mostly because who is going to read those every freaking day? The answer to that, of course, is pretty much only the people who have to edit them.

This is rough because they are usually done in Indonesian and then translated, but that’s an aside. It’s also a heckuva challenge, but I digress.

Point is, on Friday I drew the short straw (for the third day in a row) and had to edit the lovely piece.

And suddenly, everything fell into place.

The first time I read the thing through, I had absolutely no understanding of what the heck it was about. It talked about how this woman worked as a “joki” and something about illegally beating “3 in 1,” which, at that point, I had never heard of.

I searched for the “joki” term in the archive and came up empty. I Googled it and wound up on Wiki, which, after using Google Translate (Google is a big part of my world, and so is Wiki), it turned out it means “jockey.”

So that cleared it up, right?

Yeah, like the mud I’ve been slogging through to get to and from work lately. I wound up having to ask the guy who translates the stuff.

Turns out, the story subject – and all those women I pass on the road – basically hire themselves out as “jokis,” which I guess means they ride in the cars with hurried drivers trying to beat the carpool quotas.

The “three-in-one” means total people, so if the ladies bring along their (or someone else’s) baby, that turns into a bargain for the driver, who meets his quota and only has to pay the adult. (Who, presumably, takes care of the young ‘un.)

This system (or “scheme,” as they call everything here) is somehow illegal. I’m not sure why because … well, like the whole Gretna debate about barrel racing, there is nothing against the rules on the book going on, it’s just that it ticks off certain people who are trying to make money.

In order to take a certain road, you need three people in a car. You’re single, you stop and pick someone up to meet the minimum. It’s legal to give rides. The big deal is what?

Oh, yeah, if the ladies weren’t getting a ride (earning about a buck in the process), the single drivers could be pulled over and forced to pay bribes to the cops.

Fines. I mean FINES to the CITY.

(No, I don’t. I mean bribes to the cops.)

How to start a bad habit

Oh, man. I just learned that my fake LifeSavers ARE available in my easy-access grocery store.

Look out, world.

These little suckers are fabulous. They’re not WintOgreen by any stretch of the imagination, but, like the Chachas sub for M&Ms, they’re pretty fantastic at what they do.

I learned of these little guys in Kuala Lumpur, where I was shopping for some going-home-on-the- airplane-snack and got a glimpse of a little green rolled candy package that said “Peppermint” in small print. Cheap, too. I think there, they were maybe .35 or something like that.

Sold. Several packs, in fact. But not enough. I ate what I’d bought on the way to the airport and regretted not buying out the lot.

I never noticed them in Jakarta before, not that I meander much in the candy aisle. I mean, I found the Chachas, so I figured it’d be all downhill from there.

But when I went back to Kuala Lumpur, I went to the same 7-11 to clear them out and they DIDN’T HAVE ANY. Devastated, I was.

But on the side trip to Cameron Highlands, I got a fix. In the two days I was there, I probably bought five packages. They’re addicting little suckers.

And amazingly, when I went to a much nicer grocery store back home than mine, I found them. I cleaned them out – seven packs, IIRC, and found out that here, they’re about .15 a package. To me, that is a bargain.

The mints themselves are noticeably smaller than LifeSavers, but I’m not holding that against them. I just eat more.

Still, that store is a ways away. (Holy smokes, try saying that five times fast!) I figured it’d be a nice treat once in a while and give me a little incentive (other than alfredo sauce) to hit the expat grocery store.

Incentives don’t really work for me, though, especially in the rainy season. It’s pouring outside for the third time today, for example. I’m not sure that empty caloric intake, even if it’s pepperminty, is worth getting caught in a monsoon. (Or lugging the bag containing an umbrella, boots and a poncho just in case it rains.)

So I was overjoyed when I found a second supplier, even if is the hated Walmarty store. That place, oddly enough, charges more for the little guys than the expat store, plus, well, it’s Walmarty – with all that entails. I’m avoiding that like tuberculosis.

Still, though, it was a source, so the few times I’ve had occasion to head that way (such as on my way back from the doctor, which I’ve done twice lately), I’ve gone in and bought no fewer than five packages.

Right now, I’m wrapped up in the chiropractor, though, and hope I am done with the doctor, at least for now. And, with no time off lately – this week was about what I expected, except I came down with a rotten cold to boot – I haven’t had the motivation to head out there.

Next week, I have two days off in a row (assuming I’m not asked again to cough one up, which I don’t think will happen), so I’ve been counting on getting another hit. Um, I mean, some more mints. Yeah, that’s right. More mints. I can stop any time I want.

So on the usual grocery-shopping day, I went to the usual grocery store. It’s Giant, and it’s in the bottom of this cut-rate mall (owned by the conglomerate, I believe). My door-to-door time is less than the play time of “Clancy’s Tavern,” but, as I learned today, a bit longer than “Honkeytonk University.” Longer by two playings of “I Didn’t Come Here and I’m Not Leaving,” in case you needed to know.

Anyway, it seems like everyone and their brother decided to hit the store between two of the three downpours we had today, but I still made good time. I swear, I buy very little, but if I forgot one thing, I’d be totally screwed for the week. Walking out without eggs, bread or an onion (which I’ve done before) would do me in.

Today, I learned two important things.

One, all the good carrots are gone in the afternoon. That’s worth remembering, even if there was little I could do about it today.

Second, and I bet anyone can guess, is that my little mints ARE available at Giant. I have a supplier! I am as thrilled as I was to learn about that blueberry or strawberry flavored milk I drink like liquid crack. (Also available: mango, orange … they are all fabulous.)

Honestly, I have paced the candy aisle twice before, trying to find Polos. I mean, at first, I thought they were Malaysian and not available, then I thought they were some exclusive treat here, so it didn’t occur to me to look all that hard, like outside the candy aisle. But when I found them at Walmarty Store, I made a point to check. And came up empty.

When I pulled into a checkout line (which, oddly, went really fast – I got behind an Indian family with about six people but few items. It was deceptively long because of all the people but all those other schmucks trying to find a line didn’t figure out that they were all together. Two points!) I happened to glance over at the point-of-purchase crap, which usually consists of these cough drop things called Strepsils, which I have an affinity for; some blueberry gum, which sounds disgusting; batteries and other assorted stuff, plus Cokes. And there sat two boxes of Polos!

I moved faster than a junkie who’d spied a DEA agent, only toward the boxes. Grabbed five, thought, “Gee, who am I kidding?” and went back for two more. Never even saw a price tag, but they turned out to be cheaper than they are at either of the two Jakarta places I’ve seen them. My grocery store rocks.

I should have bought both boxes. I’ve already eaten two packages and there is absolutely no way the other five are going to last me until next Saturday.

Good thing I’ve already located a dentist. Inchallah, this supply won’t dry up like Hank Hill’s “bait” did, but in the meantime, I foresee me some serious pepperminty times ahead.