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.
…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
a glop of garlic
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
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:
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…
All snickering aside, I would like to thank the landlocked nation on which I currently hang my hat for allowing me the freedom, nay, the open-armed acceptance, to do the thing which was so frowned upon back in the United States, which is to drink pickle juice.
-chopping up a mountain of frozen goat meat and sorting it into “cat” and “human” piles. realizing these piles are entirely arbitrary and that the only difference is that the human pile will eventually have ketchup on it.
-hiding your cat in the bathroom when your counterparts come over. commenting on the indignant yowls happening in the background by saying “cat is angry” in two broken languages.
-realizing your cat has been rooting through the used toilet paper bin. realizing too late.