Pop Tarts and thoughts of establishing a black market
So, the roomie and I both got packages today. Mine was from Charles and gloriously had my most favorite of all Pop Tarts (yum) and a good smutty book. May Buddha bless the Charles.
The roomie’s package had a lot of “supplies.” Sometimes, we feel a bit like the troops overseas here. We beg for recognizable food, good deodorant, moisturizers without acid whiteners (yes, they sometimes add “bleach” to the moisturizers here, and, as someone hella white already, that is help I neither need nor desire). Her favorite thing in the package may be surprising: toothpaste.
Yes, they HAVE toothpaste here, but it doesn’t contain fluoride. It can’t. Fluoride is an illegal substance in these parts. So, she got three tubes and nearly squealed in girlish delight. (OK. OK. I am exaggerating a BIT for effect, but she did exclaim “sagoy!” when she uncovered them.)
She said she should sell a couple of tubes on the black market. I replied that I could just see that scene:
Pssst. Hey. You. Yeah, you. I got some good stuff here, really good. I mean, you will not find shit like this anywhere else, baby. I got the whole gambit: Colgate, Close-Up, even Aquafresh. But, yeah, The Aquafresh is, like, extra because it is so fuckin’ pure, baby. Pure. Nothing like it around here.
Personally, and I truly don’t mean this as a slur across the entire nation or region or whatever, but, from the small cross-section of the locals I have seen, fluoride might be a welcome addition to their daily routines.
Ah, Saturday night at the Internet Cafe. My life is exciting, no?
Actually, I was a bad, bad girl and called in sick today . . . mostly because I was ALSO a bad, bad girl last night. We went out drinking, and after five Singapore Slings at the local izakia (pub) and a tumbler of GIN and a wee bit of tonic at a place that is basically behind a carport in this guy’s basement and seats five, I admit to being quite hammered. I had an “in depth” conversation with a JET teacher I hardly know about defining his undefined relationship with a local Japanese lass. Well, at least I think it was deep. After two or so “slings,” being able to repeat one’s own name might be considered an intellectual accomplishment. And, the glorious English fun that is Nathan-san and I compared stretch marks and confessions of love and loss. So, it was a good night of comraderie, but one I paid for this morning over the toilet and groaning. So, yeah, I didn’t make it in today . . . third time this week, as I called in last Sun. and Mon. to show Robin around Hamada.
The front desk girls probably think I have some sort of chronic or communicable disease at this point . . . which, just for the record, I DO NOT. Thank you. But, as I don’t know just how much of this last NOVA pay period will actually wing and while its way all the way to America in check form, I just don’t care so much about that damn Puritan Work Ethic my parents so nastily instilled in me like rye in whiskey. NOVA keeps sending me little notes that they have to charge for cutting a check and changing currency, etc., etc. At some point, I may run into negative numbers and own THEM cash for the privelege of working for the company this last month.
10 days of work and counting. I hope to see many of you very soon. Keep Tulsa warm for me, darlings. I want to put it on like a pair of comfy sweats when I get back into town. Ah, the glory of being able to read all the signs—both figuratively and literally.