In J. Maarten Trost's book, The Sex Lives of Cannibals, he tells a quaint story about how Dan Wilson, a twenty-something writer from Northampton, UK, became the poet laureate of Kiribati.
Feeling snarky (and quite possibly drunk), Wilson wrote a poem about the tiny South Pacific island and expressed an interest in spending his days in paradise, writing poems under a coconut tree overlooking a lagoon.
Although Wilson's limerick attempted to rhyme coconut "tree" to "Kiribati," the island is actually pronounced "Kir-ee-bas."
It was the thought that counted. He was graciously transported to the island where he spent many a day wasted on kava with the islanders and overusing the word "fookin'."
I tell this story because I am addicted to the Feedjit application on my blog.
As I mention in my "About Me" section, I stay at home and tend to the children's needs ahead of my own. So, deep-down I am quite sure that my addiction to Blogpatrol and Feedjit stems from a burning desire for attention.
If you would meet me (or if you already know me) you might disagree with this "need for attention" statement. I tend towards plain J-Crew style clothing and understated jewelery, mainly because I don't know how to accessorize and I fear that I may look ridonkulous and amateurish in my attempt to do so.
Anywho.
My addiction to my Feedjit application has caused me to notice the many hits on my website from the country of Malta.
If you are unsure about my previous post on Malta, read this.
Either I have a following in Malta, or Graziella was highly offended and decided to tell all of her friends about the idiotic American who offered unsolicited comments about her relationship (and who didn't even know where the island of Malta was located). It is most likely the latter.
However, I have done my research on Malta and it sounds like a lovely place.
"Why don't you ask them to be poet laureate," asked Chris a few days ago when I shared the information that I had received a lot of readers from Malta.
"Ooooo, like the English guy in The Sex Lives of Cannibals," I asked.
He nodded. He had just finished the book per my recommendation.
I admit, I had to Google poet laureate because I technically did not know what a "poet laureate" is, but it seems to be a gig that I think could totally rock. Although I have not written a poem since my angst-ridden teenage years, I would be the perfect person for the job for the following reasons:
- I have a lot of time on my hands. If I could find a babysitter to watch my astonishingly well behaved children, I would gladly travel to the Mediterranean explore the delightful country of Malta.
- I have no problem with being a follower, and am very amenable to being herded around by a guide to historical sites. In return, I would vow to write gushing commentaries on my experiences.
- I won't turn down any meal presented to me by anyone ~ read: I will eat just about anything with much gusto and would bestow many praises to the cook.
- I have a passport and am pretty sure I know where it is. It has only one lonely stamp on it from Aruba. I long ~LONG~ to have a weathered passport with hundreds of stamps from foreign countries. Malta could be my second country on my way to many.
- Although I have an affinity for boxed wine, I will not spend my days ingesting kava beneath a coconut tree, as previously noted in my story about Kiribati's poet laureate. And I promise I will never use the word "fookin'" in every day conversations.
I have been told several times lately that I should write a book, to which I always exclaim, "I would have no idea what to write about!"
I have now, however, found my muse. If the people of Malta would name me their poet laureate, or at the very least host me, I would use the opportunity to learn about the country's history, traditions and culture and write a fookin' (just kidding) good book about it.
Seven pounds.
I'm not talking about the movie with the ambiguous plot that stars my favorite alien-whupping actor ~ the same actor a recent Facebook quiz revealed I should marry.
No, I am referring to the seven pounds that magically showed up on my scale this morning. I mean, is it even possible?
I wondered, then quickly dismissed the thought, if Chris somehow jacked up the scale on purpose because he was bitter about the whole centipede incident a week ago.
Yet since there was no toddler hanging off of me and I was completely naked, I decided that this number must be true. Cringing, I thought of the past week ~ the dinners out, the glasses of boxed chardonnay and the piece de resistance: yesterday's all day love-fest I carried with Chinese food .
I love Chinese food. I could very well eat Chinese food, Mongolian beef specifically, every single day for the rest of my life. This love was an integral part of my 60 pound weight gain in this last pregnancy.
So it was no surprise that we found ourselves at a new Chinese food restaurant yesterday. The banner out front said it was the "grand opening," which I like because I feel that places try harder during "grand openings." I careened the car into the parking lot and announced this was where we were going to eat.
As I struggled to control myself to not jump over the counter and eat directly from the woks our food was cooking in, I attempted to make conversation with Chris. I was dying to show off some of my newly gained knowledge about China from the book I am currently reading by J. Maarten Troost called "Lost on Planet China: The Strange and True Story of One Man's Attempt to Understand the World's Most Mystifying Nation, or How He Became Comfortable Eating Live Squid."
"Where do you think the people cooking the food are from," I ask him.
"They're Chinese, Mary," he said as he fed the baby a piece of fortune cookie and looked at me like I was the stupidest person in the world.
"They don't look Chinese," I insisted. He turned around and looked at them again. "Yes," he said. "They do."
I looked. I guess they did look Chinese. And, they were preparing Chinese food. A dead give away.
I tried something else.
"The travel book I'm reading about China is good. I'm at the part where he is in the city that makes Tsingtao beer," I said. "Do you know where that is?"
He named off a couple of cities, but none of them sounded familiar, except Beijing.
"No, no, those aren't right. I think it is a little south of Beijing," a statement which I pulled right out of my ass because my geographical knowledge of China is such that I am not even sure that I could point out more than two cities on a map. But he didn't know this, so I acted like I knew what I was talking about.
"Do you know," I asked, "that the Germans settled in the town for a while, and that is why they make beer?"
He genuinely looked as though he didn't know that, so I mentally patted myself on the back. That made up for the "where do you think the Chinese-looking people cooking Chinese food are from" question.
We worked on the mounds of food in front of us for a while, then when the baby began to cry we hurried out. The leftovers made it into the refrigerator where I continued eating them the rest of the day and into the night.
Remembering all of this, I went for a jog in a pissy mood.
I jogged over three miles, cursing myself and praying that I was sweating some of the water weight off that caused those abominable numbers to appear on my scale. I vowed to eat only fresh fruit and vegetables today to make up for the past two weeks. Then I remembered we have no fresh fruit or vegetables because it is grocery day and I am out of just about everything ~ one of the reasons we went out for Chinese food for lunch yesterday.
Tsingtao beer is made in Qingdao. I'll have to let Chris know that when we go back to that restaurant.... as soon as I take care of this seven pounds.
