Mission Accomplished

Allow me to paint for you, a picture:
My C.P. and I, in front of our school, huddled against the last of winter’s snow, playing “Marry, Fuck, Kill” with the male characters from “Lost.”
If that’s not the ultimate in Second Goal, I don’t know what is.

The Peace Corps’ mission has three simple goals:

Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.
Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

In my dreams, he calls me “Second Goalie.”

An ode to Ol’ Chickenbones

A mean nickname for a fellow volunteer a friend and I once shared resurfaced in my subconscious last night. Even while still inside it, I recognized it as an allegory for this whole two-years-long self-flagellation I’m still plugging along at. I’M SORRY I JUST GOT A BUNCH OF MELATONIN IN MY LAST CARE PACKAGE.

Anyway, so some other volunteers and I (no close friends, just some supporting characters, I don’t remember who) were sitting at a big picnic table watching some Mongolians (same, maybe the lady from the weather station was there) eat a basket of fried chicken at the far end of the table (second goaling, amirite? (and yes I had to look that up)). As they finished each piece they would hand it to us to clean off and sort into various chickenbone piles; rib bones, thigh bones, wing bones etc. As we put each bone into its correct pile, a big crowd of people standing on the other side of a chain link fence would cheer wildly.
I think you get the drift. Keep on sorting them chickenbones, friends. The world needs you.
Although to be truthful, things are actually going pretty great.
Firstly, (as my incredibly precocious and brilliant 10b class essay-writers would say) I haven’t really been assaulted by too much PEACE CORPS GUILT (which, god I hate the fact that I just linked to that poorly-written piece of garbage. I always knew the Huffington Post wasn’t a real newspaper, but this sealed it. I may have mildly cynical dreams about bone-sorting but jesus.
LISTEN TO THIS SHIT:
“How can we be paying someone to wash our clothes, how can we go on vacation, how can we have hot water, how can we have running water, arrrrghhhhhhh!”
I am going to overlook “arrrrghhhhhhh” (one g, 7 hs as proscribed by the MLA) but YOU ARE PAYING SOMEBODY TO WASH YOUR CLOTHES??? You should feel guilty, Chickenbones! Wash your own goddamn panties, girl, maybe you’ll feel better about being such a bruja about your personal computer. I’m not denying that it was a sprinkle of American/Catholic/Millenial/Human guilt that got me here in the first place, but it was not the driving factor. Mostly I wanted to saunter on over here free of charge and hang out with some niceish people who do shit different than me.
WHICH BRINGS ME TO:
Secondly, THE SHAMAN.
“So what kind of drugs did you take?” said Ms. Mom Madison, after I told her about my last spiritual encounter. None, Mom, unless you count milk tea and intestines stuffed with curdled blood. “So how much did she charge you?” Said Ms. Mom Madison again. None, Mom, unless you count the 2,000T I awkwardly gave her mother after I saw her sitting on a couch all pooped out from channeling a chain-smoking old man, a weird singing wisp, and a saucy middle-aged woman for more than an hour. And playing some incredible mouth harp and drum. The only one who would deign to converse with agadaad hun like me was the grandpa, who immediately informed me I shouldn’t be drinking vodka, followed up with flattery about my “big eyes and nice smile” and closed with some Husband Information (2-3 years in the future, Caucasian, with a little facial hair. “Do you know anybody with a little mustache?” asked Boloroo, my friend who instigated this encounter. “Everyone I know has a little mustache.” I answered, and kind of missed Brooklyn and kind of didn’t.)
NO GOOD TRANSITION TO:
Thirdly and Finally, BANGKOK:
A sort of sticky (but hopefully and probably fine) medical situation is getting this freezing cold ass shipped to the only city on this planet with more ladyboys than my birthplace (one of these days somebody is going to find the search I just did and I’m going to be ‘barrassed). Yes, I am going to Thailand on the government’s dime. Which is good timing, as the Nine Nines are only a week away and I need a little spiritual nourishment in the form of outdoor warmth, chili pepper and sandal shopping.
So I just heard myself say that last sentence to myself and now I feel like I belong in the league of Ol’ Chickenbones. Khamaagui, Onwards and Upwards! I’m just going to publish this as is, since I haven’t blogged in a very long time, mostly because I get bogged down in the editing process, trying to make it coherent and relevant. IT’S A BLOG, CHICKENBONES, GET OVER THINESELF.
The truth is I’ve written a whole bonepile of nothing since coming here, and I need to take what I can get. Probably as a result of hitting the hardrive too hard. I don’t want to end up like David Duchovny on that show I just cannot name for aesthetic reasons and I haven’t even written a book OR had sex with a teenager. So no excuses. Although I would like to put that in as a petition for my next melatonin dream. DAVID DUCHOVNY NOT A TEENAGER. Maybe a teenage David Duchovny.
Time to stop talking, Chickenbones. And we’re out.

I have created…

…a horse-meat marinade to END all other horse-meat marinades. Makes the old aduuni makh taste like fragrant morsels from a distant shore. (Thanks to Kate for leaving a tower of spices behind for me when she moved to UB) Behold!

COMBINE: 1/3 cup Chin-su
1/3 cup oil
1/3 cup fake lemon juice
cayenne pepper
black pepper
onion powder
a glop of garlic

Then! The horse meat!

CHOP UP: that horse meat

DUNK FOR MANY HOURS: that horse meat

SAUTEE: that horse meat

SALT: that horse meat

CHOMP: that horse meat

TRIUMPH: over frustration and circumstance.

She’s here.

Who’s here?

CHEESE, BITCH!

Just innocently nestled up against the hyam* in Khishig market’s non-ice cream refrigerator, as if the fact of her existence didn’t herald an occasion as momentous to BU’s foreign population as the Day of Peanut Butter (heralded by the great Kate Borkowski).
Yes, dear reader, Baruun-Urt has now finally caught up to most of the other aimag centers in the march towards Pleasing the Foreigners. Now we pray for the chicken to return.

*cousin to bologna, only with pinky-sized chunks of fat helpfully embedded inside

FRUIT JUICE! MOTHERFUCKER!

Today I rebegin the process of actually writing in this blog, one of my second-year-new-me aspirations. Among others:

-bathing slightly more regularly
-cleaning the catbox more regularly
-drinking Borgio less regularly
-firmly drawing the line at 5 English clubs
-wearing heels to work, even in the muddymuds
-not writing any more mean stuff on this blog

Also today: I saw someone, while dressed to the Mongolian nines, floss her teeth with her hair.

A brief tour of some Mongolian music videos

To begin, I should point out that Mongolians exhibit a great amount of love and respect for their mothers. Eej births you, Eej makes your boiled tea, Baby Camel cries golden tears for Camel Eej who never comes home. As a result, in any time of great agitation, where an English speaker might cry for “my God,” a Mongolian will call for “Eeje”.
Like for example when you’re one of three women dressed in baby costumes, hanging out in a shack, gyrating on a bound and blindfolded man.
“Eeje!!!”

Not only is this video great because it is about Naadam, the most fun and least socially stressful of all Mongolian holidays, but because of the G.D. costumes. Check out them furs! This only serves to strengthen my intentions of buying multiple sets of dog hair shorts and shoulder pads to sport upon my return to the US. I don’t know about those zebra stripes though. Step it up, Nara.

For balance, a song about the most socially stressful Mongolian holiday.

Let’s use this video to meditate on the particular hotness possessed by Mongolian men. Mean eyebrows! Pointy snarly teeth! Futuristic silvery Chinggis Khan vest! Ignore the fur coat parts, and Amraa. Shoo, Amraa! Take your mismatched lipstick and dye job right up on out of here.

This video is close to my heart because it is the song my duu (younger sibling) Temujin would listen to when he pooped. No Anemone, no pooping.

Anemone, for the curious, is the end result of the Mongolian “Making the Band.” This one’s about your Mom’s birthday.

This song’s called “Hello, Mom.” Youtube comments include: “nice song” and “really nice song.”

And to be fair, this one’s for Pops. Less production value, more likely to be seen on the UB bus. Just like your Dad.

And that concludes this session of Mongolian Music videos.

The White Month.

2:29 pm, somewhere near the border of the Gobi desert, alone in an apartment without heat, a hungover American woman googles Angelina Jolie’s right leg.

The end of the White Month not only means the beginning the spring, but also the end of being told I am “a good drinker.” Thanks! I AM a good drinker, aren’t I? Three cheers for me!

Tsagaan Sar visits by the numbers:
Families: 17
Buuz (rough estimate): 60
Vodka shots (conservative, non-recreational): 102
Airag glasses (by recommendation of the governor, in lieu of vodka): 6
Take-home candy/phone cards/skin whiteners: Countless

There will certainly come a day when I am no longer rewarded for gluttony. But for now…

(This is probably bad.)

Happy New Year!