The Office Supply Kidnapping Plot

The driver slowed unexpectedly on the expressway, pulling slightly to the left. He put the square, white, utilitarian van in reverse and reached his arm around the back of the seat to see out the back window. For a moment, I worried that there had been a breakdown, engine trouble, a stall. Why else would we be stopped on the expressway? I soon realized that our driver had missed his exit, but he wasn’t going to let that stand in his way.

The traffic in and around Bangkok would make any Chicagoan sweat, but my level of perspiration soared that day on a trip from the convention center to downtown. As was my assignment on this trip, I had completed this journey several times to drop off and pick up supplies by taxi and by train, but this time was a little more uncomfortable. This time I was traveling in the front seat of the utilitarian delivery van with my colleague, Susan. With no seat belts. And a severe language barrier between us and our driver.

Susan and I had attempted to climb into the back of the van but were redirected into the front, next to the driver and a little too close to each other. I got the distinct impression that this seating arrangement was intended to be respectful of us and our white-womaness, but I would have much preferred to sit on the floor of the back of the van. As he pulled out of the convention center, we were hoping that he understood our request.

 “Office supplies. We need office supplies. Scissors, staplers, pens? Office supplies?” We knew that repeating yourself several times was the best way to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak your language. I mimed with my index and middle fingers.

“SI-ZORS.”

In the rearview mirror, he spoke to his 12 or 13 year-old son, a quiet boy who sat in the backseat of the van engrossed in a comic book. His job was to help us lift and carry all the supplies we purchased and to occasionally interpret for his father using the English phrases he had likely learned from Hollywood movies. The boy nodded. His father smiled and nodded and we continued on our way.  Susan and I looked at each other and shrugged.

Actual photo of me in a taxi in Bangkok. Actual fear on my face.

 Our driver’s style behind the wheel did not seem unusual in BKK. We jerked forward and made unexpected turns. We merged into impossible streams of traffic. We accelerated to dangerous speeds and then stopped suddenly for red lights or slowing traffic. Being seated so close to the windshield made the dizzying traffic feel like a video game simulation, which was both terrifying and nauseating.  I’ve experienced plenty of bad drivers, but this man drove like he was kidnapping a couple of American citizens and trying to flee from the law.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if that was really what he was doing.  I’d start to panic, finger my Thai cell phone preparing to call for help, and try to signal to Susan that in exactly 60 seconds I was going to knock out the driver with my sweet left hook, and she’d have to grab the wheel and slide into his seat while I tied him and the boy together and notified the authorities of the international incident we so narrowly avoided.

I got as far as smiling at Susan, trying to spell out the plan with my eyes, and without notice our driver swung the van right, slamming Susan and I into each other with whispers of fear caught in our throats, and hit the breaks. Practically clutching each other, ready to scream or vomit, we stared at our driver. He pointed up at a sign posted far above our heads.

“Office Depot!?” he shouted, nodding wildly. 

And there it was, sandwiched between two blustering lanes of traffic, swarmed by overhead power lines – an Office Depot. Ah yes, I thought, narrowing my eyes, taking us to our destination covers your plot well.

We climbed out of the van in a hurry, thankful to be free of the chaos of Bangkok’s urban bustle and safe in the familiar fluorescent lights and orderly aisles of the Office Depot. Inside, as we filled a cart with office supplies,  our driver and his son waited in the van no doubt laughing about how strange and sweaty American touristas can be.

The Trip

When I walked off the plane at 4AM, I had officially been traveling for 22 hours. I was exhausted, smelly, and had to figure out how to get a cab to my hotel. Standing in a too bright airport with a language I couldn't read demanding me to go in a million directions, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to google Bangkok.

---

Hunched over in my cubicle, pouring over multiple spreadsheets on my double monitors, with headphones blasting electronica in my ears, I almost missed the phone call. It was my bosses boss. Terrified that I was about to be fired over the phone, I pulled the buds from my ears and tried to answer the phone calmly.

"Jis is Thean. THIS IS JEAN." I stumbled and then awkwardly shouted.

"Hey Jean, would you mind stopping by my office when you have a chance?" 

Of course I would. Only first I'll save all my pictures of cats to a flash drive, and erase my recent google history. You can never be too careful.

Just minutes later, In her pristine office, with the rare and beautiful north side view of the Chicago skyline, Michele cut to the chase.

"How would you like to go to Bangkok?"

This question on its own sounds a little bit like a Brokedown-Palace-under-the-table-your-mom-would-tell-you-to-say-no type offer.

"Sure!" I said. Because I'm a team player.

"Can you leave in a week?" She asked, surely incredulous that I had accepted her dubious offer without even pondering the repercussions of my agreement. 

---

The week did not pass without road blocks. The call out for an unemployed person with no personal life to cat-sit in my poorly venalated city apartment for almost two weeks at short notice for no more payment than a bottle of cheap champagne and a pack of cigarettes only appealed to one desperate person: my best friend of 15 years, Nicole. (Full Disclosure: The promises i made could only be redeemed upon my successful return. Double Full Disclosure: Unbeknownst to Nicole, this was more of a permanent arrangement, as i saw my odds of surviving the trip without contracting a deadly disease or being locked up in Thai prison to be rather low.)

Stay tuned to see what happens...

Waking With Words

I constantly woke up on the floor of my best friends dorm room.

Well, not exactly the floor - usually a bean bag chair that provided some comfort. Some times when I woke on the floor of their dorm room it was early morning after 4 hours of sleep. More often it was in late mornings or early afternoons when we all were recovering from late nights at house parties with TV and junk food. 

I'd wake up in my up lofted bed some time in early morning; face to face with both Bob Dylan and Ani Difranco. I'd fuss shortly and then feel lonely or bored or a combination of the two. I'd grab my writing book from its nest of covers, crawl down the bolted wooded ladder and shuffle next door to the room of my 18 year old comrades. 

It didn't matter if they were sleeping or not; we rarely locked our doors. 

I'd enter their room and we'd all offer greetings in our half awakeness. I'd lower myself onto the beanbag chair, open my tattered writing book to the most recent scribbles and review what I had documented in my inebriation.

Usually, what I wrote didn't fit the definition of "documented" although occasionally I did write down who said what, if it was funny enough. Most often what was scratched into those unlined pages was barely coherent, cryptic verse. I didn't write verse because I loved poetry, or even because I was good at it. I wrote verse because I was secretive and wanted to be sure to keep my real observations and emotions to myself. I wrote verse because I refused to journal. Journaling is for little girls who love horses.

I'd review my notes, and maybe I'd find a nugget of good writing, or an exceptionally funny quote from a drunk buddy. Then I'd work a little more. In those days I could just place my pen to the paper and there would be words. I'd write about everything and nothing; trying to harness and destroy all the fears and confusion that plagues young people. 

Usually, I was exhausted from the previous night's binge drinking or my constant nighttime insomnia and eventually I'd fall asleep, clutching my book protectively to my chest. I'd sleep until roused by my friends when they got hungry enough to pull their shoes on and make the journey to the cafeteria.

I still wake up with my book under my pillow. Sometimes its my iPad. Usually its at 6 am, and I'm getting up for the gym, not bemoaning a hangover, but the story is still the same. I just wish the words came as easily. Maybe I should invest in a beanbag chair.

I constantly woke up on the floor of my best friends dorm room.

Well, not exactly the floor - usually a bean bag chair that provided some comfort. Some times when I woke on the floor of their dorm room it was early morning after 4 hours of sleep. More often it was in late mornings or early afternoons when we all were recovering from late nights at house parties with TV and junk food. 

I'd wake up in my up lofted bed some time in early morning; face to face with both Bob Dylan and Ani Difranco. I'd fuss shortly and then feel lonely or bored or a combination of the two. I'd grab my writing book from its nest of covers, crawl down the bolted wooded ladder and shuffle next door to the room of my 18 year old comrades. 

It didn't matter if they were sleeping or not; we rarely locked our doors. 

I'd enter their room and we'd all offer greetings in our half awakeness. I'd lower myself onto the beanbag chair, open my tattered writing book to the most recent scribbles and review what I had documented in my inebriation.

Usually, what I wrote didn't fit the definition of "documented" although occasionally I did write down who said what, if it was funny enough. Most often what was scratched into those unlined pages was barely coherent, cryptic verse. I didn't write verse because I loved poetry, or even because I was good at it. I wrote verse because I was secretive and wanted to be sure to keep my real observations and emotions to myself. 

I'd review my notes, and maybe I'd find a nugget of good writing, or an exceptionally funny quote from a drunk buddy. Then I'd work a little more. In those days I could just place my pen to the paper and there would be words. I'd write about everything and nothing; trying to harness and destroy all the fears and confusion that plagues young people. 

Usually, I was exhausted from the previous night's binge drinking or my constant nighttime insomnia and eventually I'd fall asleep, clutching my book protectively to my chest. I'd sleep until roused by my friends when they got hungry enough to pull their shoes on and make the journey to the cafeteria.

In the more than ten years since I slept on that bean bag, I still wake up with my book under my pillow. Sometimes its my iPad. Usually its at 6 am, and i'm getting up for the gym, not bemoaning a hangover, but the story is still the same. 

Let's try this again.

I am sure that you are thrilled to see this post.

I bet for a the past year you've woken nightly with sweats - terrifying images of blank screens and a the black hole created by a lack of witty commentary shuffling through your mind - asking yourself aloud in the dim quiet of your suburban bedroom: "Will MeanJean ever  blog again?"

I know its true. Because I know you. I know where you live. Because you are my mom. 

So, here I go. I'm relaunching my blog for the 197539853825th time. 

Tri-ing to Get Over It

I've spent a lot of time over the last 5 or 6 years working on becoming a runner - when my back is cooperating, that is. This summer I finally got a new, lighter, more efficient bicycle and have been cruising around the city and occasionally commuting the 10 miles to my office. Its been so fun that I've started to let the idea of completing a triathalon into my head. Maybe even just a sprint-tri to start - which cuts the usual distances of a full tri down to more manageable distances for us everyday amateur athletes.

The "Full Tri" or "Ironman Tri" is a little bit ridiculous. It consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride topped off by a quick MARATHON run. Yeah. 26.2. You know, that thing that some people make a life goal to just complete on its own.

So, right. I'm not doing an Ironman.

But a Standard distance Tri? That's considered to be a .93 mile swim, a 25 mile ride and a 6.2 mile run. 25 mile ride and a 6.2 mile run? Can do.

A Sprint Tri? This almost sounds FUN! Its a half mile swim, 12 miles on a bike and a 5k (3.1 mile) run.  I could do that right now!

Except, wait...whats the third part that makes it a Tri? Oh, right. A swim.

I definitely know how to swim. I grew up with a pool in my yard, spent all my summers growing up in a lake at camp, and from time to time as an adult have done a little boating and floating in the water. For some reason I find myself really uncomfortable with the idea of swimming. Almost afraid, actually. The fear made me really start thinking about this. What the heck am I afraid of?

Swimming would be awesome for my back. It would be a great way to build some cardio for those long runs. I have a super nice pool at my gym that is practically demanding I stop by and throw down some laps. And, vainly, I feel like swimming does mad-awesome stuff for one's figure.

But I don't want to. Or, I'm afraid to. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if its a control issue. The water is frightening because it is encompassing. It is in charge. Its a competitor and it takes away the control I have over my own body and breath. I would need to learn to breath when the water allows me, and control my sense of panic when my face is underwater. To be totally alone in the water.

When I look to what I've learned in yoga, I start to think of taking up swimming as an important challenge. In my yoga practice, the breath is the focus and each asana exists to challenge my control of the breath. Isn't swimming just one more challenge for the breath to confront? Isn't is a worthy opponent?

What seemingly simply activity makes you feel out of control?

iPad Cat Face Awesomeness

I've written a couple new posts, but i'm experimenting with some new platforms for the ipad, so thanks in advance for your patience. :)

for your pleasure.

a cat drawing.