An Explanation of Earlier Blog Entries

Something has been on my mind lately. Namely, all the details I've left OUT of the blog over the years.

If you read between the lines, it's all here, of course. But out of respect to the other parties involved, I didn't go into specifics. Waking up from all that years later and having no respect for those individuals, I wonder why I bothered.

And why have I been thinking about it lately? Because I have to write about it. I have to go back to my book proposal about this time, and I have to explain it all. Even the missing parts.

At the end of 2005, when I left Uganda, I wished I'd been numb.

I wasn't. 2005 was a tough year. And a great year, until it was a tough year. If I were prone to pseudo-sappy nonsense, I'd say I grew a lot that year. Learned to be stronger, more independent, and to take care of myself.

Not true, of course. I blundered through the months with little grace, and certainly without much self-respect.

That was all—of course—related to colossal disappointment in a male of the species. But like Pandora's box, under all my demons, I still had hope. So when the next male of the species popped up, I gave it a shot. I was stunned, though. This one was actually a self-made millionaire.

Who adored me.

Really? The reward for going through all that emotional crap in Africa was... a Scandinavian millionaire falls out of the sky and into my lap?

I dared to laugh, and hope just a little.

About 10 minutes later—poof! There went the Scandinavian millionaire.

A less cynical Marie might have described this as another learning opportunity. Not me. I reasoned it out.

If X happens, and then X happens repeatedly, then there must be a reason X happens. Right? It's simple. If men can't stand me, and it happens over and over, then I must suck.

Before you lecture me, I know this is nuts. But it was in the back of my head. I am big on logic, big on being rational. If something happens several times in a row, it's not random coincidence. There has to be a reason.

So, I thought, I must be un-dateable. Un-girlfriendable. It's not that farfetched. I already had some Wonder Woman issues... I can't tell you how many men have said to me "You're amazing. You're smart, attractive, you can do just about anything, you're brave, ballsy, tough, brilliant, you have those cool bullet-deflecting bracelets..." etc etc etc. Oh and the last bit of that compliment? It's always the same. "But... "

Then I met a sloppy guy with an ego, totally full of career importance. Ten months later, I was dating the guy. I assume this is representative of just how low my self-esteem had fallen. "Terrible candidate? You're my guy!"

If you lower the bar too much, it will hit you in the head. So I probably shouldn't have been surprised when this Mr. Self-absorbed quit checking his e-mail and looking at his watch long enough to toss me aside.

I retired from dating for a long time. More than two years. And recently, just put a toe in the water. Tried going to dinner a few times with someone who seemed more suited to me, who is actually a decent person.

And I had to laugh. Guess what I heard? "You're amazing... but..."

I've been thinking back lately to 2005. The night I left Uganda, the driver at my hotel was sitting in front of the front desk. I'd been chatting with him on and off for a few days. He saw Herr Marlboro arrive to pick me up, to drop me at the airport. He knew we were estranged, but that I was still hopeful in spite of all the hell I'd mentioned.

The driver smiled warmly at me.

"I will pray for you."

I don't know if he did. It obviously didn't work, but I'm past the point where I can let men's opinions of me matter all that much.

The fairy tale ending isn't for me. I make my own way.

Even though I'm "amazing... but..."

Bolivian Parade Photos

I took so many photos of last weekend's Bolivian parade that it took me ages to go through them all.

Here are a few highlights. Click here to see the entire set.

Rice Ball Season

It's that time of year, when the entire neighborhood goes batty for something called "rice balls."



I've never gotten one before. The serving system is labor-intensive with only a few balls fried at a time, so the line is always enormous. But yesterday, I went over right when the festival opened, and only had to wait in line about 10 minutes.



It's a combination of rice and cheese with ground beef and cheese in the middle. These balls are mixed, then rolled in bread crumbs, then deep-fried at the point-of-sale. These are called arancini in Italian.



I ate mine in the courtyard behind the church, with Roberta and another friend. They were yummy, the weather was perfect, and the crowd around us was old and Italian. Lovely.

It's G-Day

Today, my friend and former colleague Howard reminded me that it's been 14 years since we lost Mark Gruenwald, the patron saint of Marveldom.

I was one of Mark's designated documentarians, meaning I would choose to be behind the camera rather than doing silly things in front of it. He had the unique ability to get us all to do ridiculous stuff, like perform improv shows in front of fans at conventions or have hula hoop contests in the Bullpen.

I didn't get around to creating a video of these moments in time for today, but here is the raw footage of Mark and David Wohl performing for a video I was making with David. In this, the unedited footage, you can hear me trying to stifle my laughter while still shooting with both hands. I cut that out of the final edit.

Ramadan Lanterns

NPR had a short piece on Egyptian Ramadan lanterns today. I have one--regular readers will remember me getting it in Cairo a few years ago. The bottom photo is my lantern, and the top shows one of the kiosks that line the streets of Cairo this time of year. Ramadan lanterns are colorful and gorgeous. I wish I could have a dozen in my apartment.

Bolivian Parade!

It's that time of year again—the annual downtown JC Bolivian parade. Which is a wonderful, glorious thing, because the Bolivians marching in the parade always look like they're ridiculously happy. Which makes me and everyone watching happy too.

Free Stuff

A neighbor just moved in, down-sizing from a massive house to a small urban apartment.

She gave me these beautiful Hmong (Laos) embroideries. I can't wait to use them to make something.

But what? I'm thinking handbag, but I'm not sure what kind of background these would go on.

From the Bottom of a Drawer

Amusement. Back in 2001, this small community newspaper that was circulated where my mother then lived considered it noteworthy that I was using the Internet to communicate.

The headline is, of course, wrong. I never lived in Montclair. That's just an editor writing a headline after barely glancing at the copy.

The rest is fairly accurate. Maybe my mother wrote it. Yeah, probably.



You have to click if you actually want to read it.

Good Luck with That

Dress Code

This strange sign is on the door to the Keyhole, a bar near the Grove Street PATH.

I looked at it for a while and considered the traditional clientele of the bar, which has in the past occasionally involved drunk old guys and our local version of Stanley Kowalski—yes, some in tank tops—stumbling around in front of the door. I concluded that either the gentrification of the area has led the bar to attempt to provide a more comfortable environment for their newer clients, the bar has tired of drunk old guys and workers stumbling around, or else, mysteriously, men who wear tank tops misbehave while men in sleeves do not.