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.

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

She’s here.

Who’s here?

CHEESE, BITCH!

cheese

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.

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!

M22 T-shirt Designs: A Retrospective

Or: Please Don’t be Mad at Thanksgiving


“I’m planning on getting this sweet business tattooed on the nape of my neck the second I hit Stateside.”


“I don’t know if you’ve heard of this artist I like. He’s pretty out there. Pretty…avant-garde you might say. Yeah, you probably haven’t heard of him. Don’t worry about it. I said don’t worry about it.”


So this is obviously horrible, but it has a sense of humor about itself, and hey, right there’s a sun wearing sunglasses. God knows I can’t shit on iconography like that. And it was also so obviously made by a dude that somehow it’s charming. I don’t know. At least we’re not in Fiji, guys. Am I right? *wink*


This is actually fantastic. I can’t explain why, but trust, it is.


Hoooooo boy. This. This pretty much sums up everything that is dark and repulsive and evil hiding deep within the rotten hell-meat of the human heart. This makes me want to Early Terminate and never do anything nice for anyone ever again. And are those sailboats floating along the bottom? I don’t care! I don’t care what kind of sailboats or gers or high peaked mountains or weeping angels are sniffing around down there, because this is a hateful, cynical, bullshit piece of t-shirt. You should be ashamed of yourself. BOOOOOOOOOOO!


Sigh. I don’t know. I’m all pooped out after that last one. This is ugly.


I could get behind this one, if I knew where it was going on the t-shirt. And furthermore, who is teaching whom how to Dougie here, hm? These are the questions I want answered before I go any further.


Ok, so there’s a lot going on here. From where I’m standing, there’s that Dr. symbol, and a book with letters falling out of it, and some sort of flesh-crab standing on a Tugrik, and a child holding a great big pizza. Then there’s a dog slowly turning into a horse. Peace Corps! Did I win? MOTHERFUCKER I SAID DID I WIN?


I don’t understand this because I’M NOT FROM MICHIGAN YOU EXCLUSIONARY BASTARDS.



I can live with this.


Why. Why. Why is this happening? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, PEOPLE. Can you imagine wearing this in public, in America? Like, out to dinner at an adult restaurant? On an adult date?
“Oh, this is just my Peace Corps Mongolia shirt.”
“…?”
“Mongolia.”
“…?”
“Yes, they require a college degree.”
“….?”
“Mongolia.”
“….?”
Because there is a goddamn P and a C covering each of her eyeballs! Jesus, you don’t understand a single thing about me.”
And there went your wife. Thanks, T-shirt.


This is fine.


This reminds me of the time I had to introduce myself in a speech on the first day of school in front of everyone and a television crew and therefore I don’t like it.

****

Anyway! Thanks for making me glad I didn’t submit a T-shirt design. Now no cranky bitches will be raggin’ on me from the sad and lonely safety of the internet. Goodnight, Mongolia! Goodnight, everyone.

Impressions

Introducing the dark inner workings of the Mongolian 13 year old.
Non Sequiturs ahoy!

“I will study at Harword.
Mongolia is will be 30,000 very much.
The world will be no water.
I love world and Mongolia.”

“I will speak like Jessica.
And Anna Sui makes fragrance. It’s very nice.
Today is!”

“Are you reading Secret? I’m forgot it’s writers.”
(ed: please lord let her not be talking about what I think she’s talking about.)

“Sports and Sportsman.
Sports, it is great.”

“I domesticate a fish.
I have many fish.
But I want domesticate a fish.”

(I have entitled this one, “Also”)
“I love animals. If I was animal, I will eat grass.
Because I can’t eat grass.
Grass is green and bitter but I’m person.
I will eat grass when pigs fly.
So, I don’t like grass, but grass is very nice.
Also, Laugh makes me happy, but Cry makes me sad.”

“My love boy. My love boy name is Amargabat. ❤ He is 15 years old. He is very best boy. So very cute boy. We broke up with after 7 month. We first met. I tried to forget him but I couldn't. I decided to wait for him. I'm still waiting for him…What should I do? Can you give me some advice Jessica please???? THIS IS MY DREAM."

And scene.

Wherever you go, there you are.

Today, after escorting a 68 year old woman (who happened upon us at the Tansig Hotel during Monglish club and who I am still pretty concerned about–how did she get out here? What is she doing? Where did she get that Lonely Planet Guide from 2008 and why is she following it? More on her later.) to a room we found for her at the government building, and after having a few beers with the girls from the Tourism Office, and after being accosted by a couple of drunk countryside men, and after buying a loaf of bread I finally managed to wrench myself free n’ homewards.
What do I hear as I pass Star Nightclub, as I skirt around the wet tar laid down by the Chinese construction workers who are repaving Temuulel road for the 3rd time since I’ve been here, but THIS:

Now mind you, the last time I was involuntarily alerted to this song I was hightailing it down Spring street, crossing Wooster on my way to work a Champagne and Oyster event at the fancy damn chocolate shop where I worked, (Also I may have been wearing THE SAME DRESS I AM NOW (that would be the black long-sleever with the pockets and the bleach stain in the back that I bought at Chico’s with my mom but don’t tell anyone) ) when suddenly a different breed of construction worker poked his head out of the loading dock he was constructing in and shouted “DAMN BABY THAT’S MY JAM.”
So there’s that.
It may also interest you to know that in Mongolia, as well as New York, drunk people do the same earnestly purposeful “IMA GOIN’ HOME” walk. It sure interests me.