The Bedbugs Are Coming! The Bedbugs Are Coming!

There’s a classic sci fi movie from back when movies came only in 2 colors called Them. In this flick sent straight out of my nightmares giant ant aliens land on earth and begin seeking revenge for all of the delicious picnics that their earthling brothers and sisters were never invited to. They rampage buildings, eat people and (I think) fashion giant magnifying glasses to give all 8 year old boys a taste of their own medicine. It’s some scary shit. Anyway, everyone in New York City is now basically living through this cinematic nightmare in real live living color. In the Broadway version of this little masterpiece the part of the giant alien ants is being played by Cimex lectularius aka the devil’s insect minion aka the common bedbug.

For those of you not living in the NYC let me catch you up on what’s going down. Basically bedbugs be raping everybody up in here. They’re in our movie theaters, our tourist traps, our douche-y clothing stores our fanciest pantie palaces, nothing is sacred. So far (as far as I know) they have yet to infiltrate Casa de Babble probably mostly because I am freaking the fuck out all of the time. I give furniture and mattresses left on the street a 5 foot berth, I get my nose right up against hotel sheet and stare down the thread count looking for little black or red dots. I pretty much will not go to the movies anymore and I spend every taxi ride thinking about the colonies likely lurking beneath the Naugahyde.

It used to be that my evening routine went something like this: start to fall asleep in front of tivoed episodes of Toddlers in Tiaras (sweet dreams!), drag myself up off of the couch, brush teeth, wash face, say my bet hedging prayers, run through a few OCD games to lull my mind to sleep and Zzzzz. But now somewhere between OCD and snoozeville I’ve inserted 45 minutes of fun called “OH MY FUCKING GOD IS THAT A BED BUG ON MY ANKLE?” Turns out that when you lie completely still mentally scanning your skin for signs of creepy crawlies it is very easy for every spare thread/dead skin cell/air molecule to feel like the stab of bug fangs.

Worse then this is how my home has been turned into a battle ground. My enemy? Each and every bug-sized bit sticking to my bare feet, caught behind my ear or glued to the sweaty back of my knee. Each stray breadcrumb, missing ball of earwax or lonely grain of salt is suddenly a potential threat. Saturday night I had to get up from watching Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince to turn on a light and examine a small black flotsam of suspicion for signs of buginess. It came away still unidentified but too misshapen and flat to be a bug. I remain on guard. Before bed last night, while peering over my shoulder and into a full length mirror to examine my back for bites, I noticed that I have enough moles back there to warrant a visit to dermatologist, unfortunately I can’t make an appointment because what if the doc finds a bedbug bite somewhere on my person? Certainly the embarrassment alone is scarier than skin cancer.

I know that if an infestation breaks out in my house life is pretty much over.

Like other species of bloodsucking vampires, bedbugs are basically immortal. They can go a year without feeding. They can withstand temperatures down to -26 F and up to 115. They are resistant to pretty much all legal pesticides. Luckily, they do not sparkle in the sunlight or have exceptionally well tussled hair or the future of the human species would be doomed.

So here’s what happens when all of your worst nightmares come true and you spot a fat little blood filled insect wobbling across your pillow. First you freak out and cry a lot. Then you call every exterminator in the city who will tell you two things:

1. Bedbugs are basically impossible to get rid of.
2. They will happily charge you thousands of dollars and try their best

So of course you give them all of your money. Then you find out that you have to throw away everything you own because it is actually owned by bedbugs (possession being at least 9/10th of Mother Nature’s law). Eventually you have to come out to friends and family about your infestation and understandably they all disown you rather than risk catching your gross bedbugs. You should probably get a therapist to deal with this traumatic life experience but you have no money and realistically there ain’t no shrink willing to risk bedbugs taking over his couch. So, basically then you commit suicide. The end.

Long time readers of this blog will remember that I make one exception in my greenie hippy rules for living and that my friends is for bug killin’. And in the case of the bedbug I am pretty much willing to get cancer if it will rid my fair city of this nightmare. You heard me right folks: It’s time to bring back the DDT. Back in the 40s they DDT bombed the bedbugs almost out of existence which raised morale in the country just enough to motivate us to take on the Nazis. Then the pesticide went and killed a bunch of bald eagles and I couldn't much blame the hippies for getting it banned until now. Obviously these are dire circumstances.

Baring the (I suppose unlikely) re-legalization of DDT we’re all getting “The Bugz” (might as well give them a hip name in preparation, “Nah honey that ain’t herpes, I gotz The Bugz!”) So maybe the thing to do is look on the bright side -- bedbugs can’t be all bad, right? Firstly there’s the obvious weight loss benefit -- they say "a pint’s a pound the world round" regardless of if the pint ends up in a blood bank or a bedbug tummy. Then there’s the mystical bloodsucker angle, given the love-fest this country is having with vampires you’d think a real life bloodsucking creature could get a little respect. Lastly there’s the orgy factor -- regardless of your own personal studdliness a colony of bedbugs is surely the highest number of individuals that have ever been in your bed at one time. Own it hot stuff; You’re having a menage-a-google every night. Though given the following video of bedbug sex perhaps the orgy wouldn’t be as awesome as I originally thought.

This Just In: Pants on Fire all Over the Internet

I basically have a PHD in online dating. I’ve been on crazyblinddates (and TV). I’ve been on actual crazy blind dates. I’ve met winners and losers and lots of blog fodder. I met guys on IRC (old school!), on Spark Match, on craigslist, on Nerve, on OkCupid, on Facebook, etc (and never on eHarmony or Match because I am a cheap snob). And now I’ve gone and shacked up with a dude I met online and we don’t even bother to lie about how we met (Go ahead. Judge us! We’ll be over here making googly eyes so we probably won’t even notice.). I am a big fan of online dating mostly because it takes an activity (meeting people) that once required one to put on pants and be nice and makes it happily catty and pantsless! If online dating were a charity I would donate money every year. If it were a presidential candidate I would volunteer to work on its campaign and then pretend to be the father of its love child. If there were an "easy A" graduate class on it I would teach it. I know what I’m talking about. So trust me when I say that you’re doing it wrong.

Or if you don’t trust me; trust the data. I absolutely love the OkTrends pieces where the OkCupid people analyze their tons of online dating data to find out exactly how we are all screwing ourselves (instead of the people we could be meeting on their site!). The latest and greatest of these pieces is about the lies that people tell in their online profiles. All of the expected transgressions are there -- I’m taller! I’m richer! I’m bisexual-er! (?!?) Now, obviously we should stop lying because that is exactly how one ends up burning in hell but maybe also because one will get caught and then one will probably not get laid. In the article, the author muses a bit about how exactly the liars expect to get away with their lies once a relationship moves from screen to real life but I would contend that no one needs to get away with anything.

Most people have no idea what it is they want.

I am constantly hearing girls say stupid shit about how they would not ever ever never ever date a boy who is under 6 feet tall. Similarly, many boys seem to have an arbitrary body weight that they fear no date should be allowed to exceed. Some of these folks are just assholes. But I think most of them are ok people who suffer from two much more common problems:

• Belief that physical appearance matters way more than it actually does.
• Belief that they know what “tall” and “not fat” look like in number form.

I’m not saying that being physically attracted to someone is unimportant. You need to want to bang your significant other -- but (lucky for the future of the human race and evidenced by over population problem) I think most of us are actually willing to bang a lot more people then we’d like to admit. (Sluts!) And more importantly, I don’t think most of us have any idea what 6 feet or 135 pounds looks like on a real life body. Allowing yourself to draw a hard line between 5’11” and 6’0” means not going out on dates with a lot of guys that might be just right for you. You can continue pretending that there is no way you could ever want to have sex with a body that weighs 140 or measures 5'11” but don’t expect sympathy when you die alone. In the end, there is only one person responsible for your self-imposed limits. (And if you really can’t find someone in the 5’11” category attractive no matter what, then perhaps you really are an asshole! You can stop reading now!).

When you slowly get to know someone (through work or mutual friends or anywhere but the internet) you often learn to like them long before you think about if you like them like them. But online dating takes away this opportunity, instead you’re supposed to decide if you could ever fall in love with a collection of extremely self-edited snippets (most of which often aren't even the right snippets!). A smart boy won’t admit in his profile a love for Frito pie, old broken down trains and the smell of the top your head but its often exactly those quirks that make you want to bed him on date 3 or 35 or 310.

We’d all do well to accept these facts: You will never be given enough online dating factoids to determine if you could fall in love with someone. You might not fully understand just how flexible most of your deal-breakers really are.

But most people won’t admit either of these things (even to themselves) and so it pays to lie. It's very possible that claiming you’re 2 inches taller or 10 pounds lighter or 20K wealthier is going to get you on an actual date where you get the opportunity to prove that your jokes and astute observations and ability to order wine without embarrassing yourself can more than make up for stature and bank account. Just hope when you show up at the bar your date isn’t holding a copy of your profile in one hand and a measuring tape in the other. The lucky thing about love (or even about a really hard crush) is that it forgives a lot of transgressions.

Maybe I’m not cynical enough (this is the first time in all history that this possibility has ever been considered). I’m assuming that most people engaged in online dating would like to meet someone and fall in love and live happily ever after until they have a baby and realize that evolution totally tricked them into a life of green oozing feces and 3am screaming. (Surprise!). Obviously some people are trolling the Internet for amusement or a quick lay and probably some even larger number of people aren't ready to do much more then casually flirt (be it over a barstool or a computer monitor). But for the lovey-dovey mushheads out there (Put your hearts on your sleeve! Holla!) maybe go out with a shortie or a poor guy now and then. And go ahead and keep lying; it doesn’t matter.

Twi-Hard with a Vengeance

Dating is stressful enough when you’re 30 but it super-duper sucks when your mom won’t let you get highlights and all the boys in your school still smell like worms. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone really hot would come along, fall in love with you, beat up your enemies and make life a little easier? Would it be nicer if we could magically take away all of the ridiculous dating pressure that our society places on 12 year olds and make them all love themselves as is? OF COURSE. Let me know when you get to that.

Tomorrow night I am going to see Twilight: Eclipse and I’m very excited because there will be six packs and wolf packs, blood drinkers and vodka drinks (pre party!), and lust and romance and campy overwrought silliness. Bring it on. Of course, if the Internet has anything to say about it, looking forward to sparkling vampires on the big screen makes me at best a huge loser and at worst personally responsible for the downfall of cinema.

I’m not going to argue that the Twilight movies (or the books for that matter) are high art but the assertion that they are any worse then the rest of the summer blockbusters seems inherently sexist. Nobody seems angry when Pirates of the Caribbean or Ironman or Spiderman 3 (or anything else primarily marketed to teen boys) drag in buckets of money at the box office even though it’s generally accepted that none of these films will be honored by The Academy. But with last week’s record breaking release of the third movie in the Twilight series the Internet seems awash with backlash.

There are a lot of real issues in the Twilight-verse that are ripe to bitch about:

• The writing isn’t challenging.
• The story perpetuates the idea that a person (in particular a female person) cannot be whole without a partner (for more on this topic read Gloria Steinem's brilliant chapter on love vs. romance in A Revolution From Within).
• Ain’t nobody getting laid.
• Two different adult characters fall in romantic love with babies.

But I don’t think any of these reasons are the real source of the rampant Twilight hatred. I think people are hating on Twilight because the boys don’t want to share the marque with girl-y romance movies. And I think all of us are a lot too quick to brand almost anything made entirely for girls as lame.

I can’t object to good humored satire at Twilight’s expense -- all successful pop culture deserves the occasional skewering (I’ve even done a bit of my own: here and here) -- but I do take issue with the attitude that anyone who likes Twilight is a loser. Being a pre-teen girl is the lowest of the low. It’s as if Mother Nature, God and society stage a 3 pronged strike on every girl’s 12th birthday. Suddenly you wake up on bloody sheets, none of your clothing fits, you’re expected to maneuver a razor blade over your knobby knees and you discover that ice cream will make you fat. If ever a demographic has earned a guilty pleasure or two it’s these young ladies. And yet no one seems willing to let the Twi-hards have their fun.

Most of the Twilight complaints seem obsessed with the mushiness of the central romance between Edward and Bella. For those not in the know: the handsome vampire falls madly in love with the regular girl (without even talking to her!) and dedicates himself to her for life (which in his case is FOREVER). She can’t do anything to make him stop loving her. He wants to protect her and watch her sleep and drink every little drop of her yummy yummy blood. I’m going to assume that most of the haters were never 8th grade girls so they should trust me when I say that this shit would be super hot if you had a vagina and were in junior high.

Also confusing is the anger over Stephanie Meyer’s tweaking of the Vampire myth (as evidenced by the millions of geeks yelling about “real” vampires not sparkling). How does one go about establishing a “real” version of a completely fictional creature that no one knows the original source for? (Aside: here’s an interesting comparison of vampire traits). Obviously the real issue is not the sparkle (poor quality special effects notwithstanding) but (I’m guessing?) the feminizing of a scary monster. Stephanie Meyer can’t be blamed exclusively for the concept of pretty pretty vampires falling in love with mortal girls (Buffy? Interview with a Vampire?) and boys can hardly lay claim to the vampire character (True Blood? Bram Stoker’s Dracula? Dark Shadows? Was any of this shit made for dudes?).

One has to ask, “Why are the boys so angry?” One theory (thanks to my coworker Aaron) is that the geeks don’t like having Comic Con taken over by girls. While I can understand not wanting the ladies to see you dressed up as an anime character (living in glass houses much?) I can’t help but think that training a bunch of young girls to like fantasy stories will surely lead to more geeks getting laid. Even Kevin Smith is down with that shit.

Next time you find yourself angrily ranting about a piece of pop culture you might consider that you’re not the target demographic. (Personally I find Veggie Tales, Saw IV and The Bridges of Madison County all irredeemable.) You might also consider that the fantasy of every pasty white pre-teen boy was already made into a movie back in 1985. And hey, boys -- if you’re still feeling the rage, rest easy knowing that teen heartthrobs rarely fare well in the end. As proof here’s a recent image of my own personal adolescent love interest. Smoking.

On Being a Big Sister

It was always the same repeat played weekly throughout my elementary school years. I’m in the backseat of a nondescript car with my parents up front and my younger brother seated beside me. We’re on a cartoonishly twisted dirt road climbing up the side of a mountain and for some reason I’m not challenging my brother to scooch over to my side of the car and meet his doom. This is how you know that everything is a dream – Childhood Brianna never missed an opportunity to cajole her brother into a punch in the face.

We’re traveling somewhere far from home and my brother is inexplicably ill and we’re taking him to a doctor who, of course, lives at the top of a craggy mountain equipped with a road designed by the Cambodian Transit Authority (this is the most realistic part of the dream – my parents eschewed asphalt and never took us anywhere with a paved road). When we reach the top of the mountain the doctor's office is a scene plucked straight from Scooby Doo – wooden shack, peeling paint, cracked windows, flower beds full of wilted pansies – things could not look more ripe for evil-making. The scene gets no better as we walk over the creaky porch and through the door only to be greeted by Witch Hazel herself.

My parents seem nonplused and hand over my brother to the good doctor who whisks him away into her lair while Mom and Dad basically sip tea and take a nap. So finally I have to step up to the plate and point out what is obvious to any 5 year old: That lady is a witch doctor! Baby brother is gonna die in there! Of course no one takes me seriously and I start crying and freaking out which, thankfully, wakes me from my slumber.

Suddenly there I am, lying in my pink loft bed only 2 feet from the ceiling suddenly remembering, “Dude, I hate my brother! Not only does that little twerp ruin my waking hours but now I can’t even make it to first grade well rested! And we have finger painting today!”

Geekery: Budgeting for South East Asia

Remember when I said that we'd be doing our tour of South East Asia at a cost of $70/day (for 2 people!)? Remember when you thought, "That's insanely cheap, there is simply no way that is possible."? Remember when I proved you wrong? No? Well get ready because the data is right here!

Picture it: the waves lapping at the shore, the sun sinking into the South China Sea, a brightly colored drink in a pretty glass adorned with an orchid, half naked children running like mutant 2 legged crabs through the surf, a stray dog shoving his head into your crotch...the tip tap tip tap of fingers on keyboard, a beautiful color-coaded spread sheet. You can take the manager out of the project but you can't take the project manager out of the girl.

Much to Geoff's constant annoyance I spent some small amount of each day in paradise entering our expenditures into a Google spreadsheet so that I could hopefully come home to the wonderful fun of proving myself right. I also spent a similar amount of time each day raising my eyebrows and quietly fuming when Geoff ordered a second gin and tonic because how will we ever stay on budget if you insist on $6 in cocktails every day? (Of course, I have to acknowledge that it was either $6 in cocktail costs or considerably more in hospital fees from when he eventually broke down and strangled my OCD, penny-pinching ass -- so really gin was the more budget friendly option).

Before we get into the exciting data, a few caveats. There are for sure errors in my data and I have this fear that some crazy internet person is going to comb through it and email me copious notes about all of my mistakes. This is obviously a paranoid fantasy because while there are FOR SURE tons of crazy people on the internet who would do this, I am almost positive that I have yet to attract enough internet stalkers to have to worry about the crazies coming after me just yet. I only wish I was popular enough to have to worry about someone (or even multiple someones) OCD-ing it up on my lunch costs. But just in case, let me state that there are errors in this data. This is because I often didn't have access to wifi and thus was unmotivated to touch the computer (You mean I won't be able to read about funny cats? I'm out.). This is also because even though I sometimes like to pretend that I have a super-human memory, I still forget things. This is also because sometimes I cheated. Here is a list of ways that I totally cheated on the budget:

• I did not include flight costs. It is totally possible to recreate our trip using only buses and thus spending WAY less money but sometimes when you're on an overnight bus ride listening to the horn that the driver leans on once a minute as if to scream, "Wake up whitey, you're about to die!" You remember that you can totally afford a $50 plane ticket and that while, yes, this will totally screw the budget it might make up for that sin with a night of sleep and not being dead on the side of a highway in Vietnam.
• I did not include souvenir or gift costs so my firends and family may never know exactly how cheap knock off tshirts are in Bangkok.
• I did not include the cost of our scuba diving course because even though scuba diving in Thailand is shockingly cheap (we paid $278.43 each for the four day certification course with 4 dives) it cannot be done for $35/day/person and we had pre-approved that particular out of budget splurge. The budget and I thoroughly enjoyed the 4 days of free hotel room that came with the course.
• For the last 13 days of our trip I threw the budget out the window. These days were by far the most expensive on our trip. We lived it up in hotels built for very discerning Japanese business men and/or families of Germans. We drank singapore slings made with top shelf gin. We took taxis because we were too lazy (and fancy) for public transit. Sometimes we got into a tuktuk without even arguing about the price which means we paid 5 times more then we needed to and we didn't even care. We were the Mr. Howel and Lovey of Thailand and it was grand. Geoff wanted to continue recording the budget during these days of excess just for the hilarious comparison factor but I had to insist that we not do this because when the budget is in play I simply cannot stop thinking about how much more awesome the data would look if I just had one less mai tai, one less foot massage, one less bag of cookies from the mini bar -- and really, who wants to live like that?

Ok, enough blathering on to the data!

Days In Budget: 71

Hotel: $1,165.38

Food + Drink: $2,229.07

Travel: $604.71

Visas: $225.00

Tourism: $640.54

Local Transport: $361.03

Total Spent: $5,302.14

Daily Average: $74.68

Ok, so obviously we went over budget. It is difficult (nay, impossible) for me to type that sentence without following it up with a list of excuses which is exactly what I will do in just a moment here but first I will own it. We went over budget. That's ok.

Because, you see, we didn't have to. We could have quite easily stayed on budget. There are scores of days (46 to be exact) in my little spreadsheet that are happily under budget. There is even one day (February 17th) where we spent $25.15 -- thanks in part to that free hotel room that we got from our scuba class but mostly to the fact that sitting on the beach don't cost a thing. The problem was that when we went over budget we partied like Scrooge McDuck (if Mr. McDuck had been partying in Asia and if, instead of a pool full of gold coins, he had a really awesome tour of the Vietnam countryside followed by 3 cocktails OR a fancy sleeping car for his 12 hour train ride OR some sweet Laos visas). What I'm saying is that when we figured that we were going over budget anyway we seemed to say "well the diet is screwed for today, might as well eat an entire cheesecake." (This is an attitude that I have also employed in a less metaphorical way with actual cheesecakes and actual diets). Our most expensive day in Asia (3/8/2010) was a major blow out -- $198.50 -- we went on a tour of Angkor Wat which not only meant playing for a tour guide ($27) but also going to breakfast and dinner at the pricey establishments that our tour guide is getting kick backs to drop us off at, but more important than all that (which alone would have resulted in a $85.50 day) we bought our Vietnam Visas which (including delivery fees) cost a whopping $113.

In addition to the pain of Visa costs which made us consider looking into boarder crossing coyote services we spent a lot on getting from one place to another. For a while I even considered pulling all travel costs out of the budget since they were painfully expensive and since after a few Biere La Rues it was easy to convince yourself that travel wasn't part of a daily budget! And of course, there was the cheating. If we're not going to count flights why count pricey train rides or even cheap bus tickets?

I would also like to not count all of Cambodia. You'd think hotel rooms with bathroom walls that don't extend to the ceiling and towns covered with a thin layer of garbage would, if nothing else, be easy on the wallet but NOT SO! Since the country is much poorer then Thailand or Vietnam (Source) we kind of expected to live like kings -- but this was not to be. Part of the problem is that we spent a lot of time in Siem Reap visiting Angkor Wat and the surrounding ruins which are swarming with westerners and thus very expensive (ok, comparatively expensive... our average per day cost in Siem Reap was $81.92 which wouldn't even come close to covering our estimated cost of a night in our very own Brooklyn apartment (~$91)). The other part of the problem is that Cambodia is just hard and Geoff and I are comforted by the fancy. After a day of mourning the deaths of the past and turning away the legions of poor children we felt like we deserved some AC and our own bathroom. (Better people would probably feel like they too could do without but we are not better people).

Conversely we had been warned by many a traveler that Vietnam would be pricey but somehow it was by far our cheapest destination (possibly because we both would happily live off of $.50 Ban Mis made by an old lady on a scummy street corner). We scored in the north by visiting Hanoi and Halong Bay during the low season (downside: too cold to swim, upside: $6 rooms, uncrowded waters and not getting eaten by giant jellyfish). As far as I can tell the rest of the country is just always cheap. Our average hotel cost in Vietnam was $15.16 (compared to a trip-wide average of $17.66) and the hotels were markedly nicer than those in other countries -- we had AC, hot showers, complete bathroom walls, balconies AND CNN international! Over 22 days we had 24 meals that cost under $5. One day in Hue we had lunch for $.78 -- granted it was pho and coffee eaten while seated on a dirty curb but STILL! If you wanna live like a king Vietnam is highly recommended.

Ok, enough. I could continue to entertain you with the minutia of cost of traveling in South East Asia but I suspect that there are no readers left down here at the bottom of the page. If you're planning a trip of your own or if you're one of those elusive Random Access Babble super fans I'll happily (if a little wearily) send you a copy of the grand spreadsheet, just drop me and email.

South East Asia by the Numbers

• Length of Trip: 89 Days
• Countries Visited: 4 (Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos)
  
• Number of Hotels Stayed in: 35
• Cheapest Hotel: Cat Ba Island $6 (comes with free poster of naked lady!)
• Most Expensive Hotel: Lebua Hotel Bangkok $141.95
• Balcony Rooms: 6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)
• Flights: 8
• Train Trips: 6
• Bus Trips: 19
• Boat Trips: 6
• Approximate Distance Traveled: 33769.38 miles (flights: 29194.41, train: 1262.3, bus:3078.47, boat: 234.2)
• Number of Massages:11
• Cheapest Massage: Blind Massage School, Hue Vietnam $2.60 (includes a generous tip -- base cost $1.82!)
• Most Expensive Massage:$12, Hue Vietnam (some fancy hotel during a back pain emergency)
• New Fruits Eaten (Brianna only): 8 (mangosteen, mariana plum, water apple, vietnamese pomelo, longon, toddy palm fruit, dragonfruit, jackfruit)
• Books Read: 9 (Up in The Air, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, When you are Engulfed in Flames, Lush Life, Chang and Eng, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Slam, Definitely Dead, Invisible Monsters)
• Pictures Taken (includes videos): 3399
• Amateur Botany Shots: 62
• Buddha Shots: 79
• Food Porn Shots: 104
• Pairs of Shoes Purchased: 6
• Scuba Dives: 4
• Scams Fallen Prey To: 2
• Motorbikes rented: 1
• Seas Swam in: 2 (South China Sea, Andaman Sea)
• Regrets: 0

The Bug and Bathroom Experience

The Gibbon Experience was many things. Sweeping views of the rain forest that seemed never ending. Lightening storms that turned the whole world purple. Zip lines that stretched for miles 25 feet over the canopy. A hike that was by no means the easy hour that was promised. (Proving that, the world over, from Horst Klemm to the average Laotion villager, hikers are all evil lying scum). Winds so fierce that we twice had to evacuate -- zip lining blind out into the pitch black night and dodging falling tree limbs in a mad dash through the jungle. But as I sit down to recount our story of playing George of the Jungle for 2 days nothing comes alive on the paper save the stories of giant insects and questionable trips to the toilet. So here you will find no gibbons (we didn't find any in the jungle either, though we woke each morning to their ambulance-like singing) for which I am sorry but my muses lead me only towards potty humor (at least I'm not the only one -- see here for one of our treehouse-mates more poetic account of his own adventures in the jungle loo).

I have never been able to sleep through the night. No matter how tired I am, no matter how many drinks I refuse after 9pm, I will invariably wake up in the wee hours having to wee. When my bladder rudely interrupted the dream I was having about a ring that played music, the jungle world was pitch black and noisy. Insects buzzed around and threw themselves in fits against the protective sheet hung like armour around the mats and blankets that made up our bed. Something of considerable heft was wiggling around in the palm leaves of the treehouse roof. I did not want to get up and make the long climb down 2 staircases into the open air bathroom where hornets congregated like the toilet was their office water cooler. I squeezed my eyes back closed, I crossed my legs and thought sleepy thoughts. But my bladder would not quiet: "Time to pee, time to pee, TIME TO PEE!" Left with no choice other than getting up or wetting the sheets (which I would have more seriously considered if I didn't think the urine smell would attract even more beasties bed-side) I crawled out of our cocoon and into the night.

I had to turn on my headlamp lest the boogie man get me, or I kill myself on the stairs but each flash of the light was a beacon alerting every bug in the jungle to attack my head. So I'd turn it on, quickly scan the ground for slippery steps, egg-sized beetles and monster paws, then plunge myself back into complete darkness, shuffle forward a few steps and repeat. I eventually reached the bathroom only to live out childhood nightmare #437.

I scanned the room with my headlamp shining it from the curtain that we called a door to the railing that we pretended was a wall and off the edge into the abyss of the jungle beyond. I entered after the all clear (or the mostly clear -- there were moths and other unidentifiable swarming around my head almost immediately but none seemed bigger than a quarter so I hoped that I could take them.). Before hitting the off button on the light and squatting I quickly illuminated the toilet where some leaf or twig was floating around in the bowl. Two or three thin black strands seemed to be reaching up from the depths to curl over the porcelain lip -- certainly animated only by the lapping of the water. Or, perhaps, more certainly a living creature intent on biting my behind. As I stood there with my light aimed into the pot and an army of insect friends installing a velvet rope in front of the dance club that had just opened on my forehead, the leaves or twigs in the toilet quickly came to life. Flicking up out of the water and trying to cling to the rim were at least 3 antenna or legs belonging to either a mutant lobster lost miles and miles from the ocean or a spider the size of my fist.

A brief aside: For a few years when I was in elementary school my family took off the month of April to go camping on the beach in Baja, Mexico. One year when I was 7 or 8 we rolled home from vacation after dark and as we pulled into our driveway my mom joked that we'd been gone so long that the house would be full of cobwebs and that (most hilarious of all) there might even be cobwebs IN THE TOILET! What the fuck was wrong with this woman I'll never know, but I easily made the leap from cobwebs to spiders to my naked butt and have been a little pee-shy ever since. I always check the pot for 8 legged friends before sitting down. I can't quite tell you what awful thing a spider might do to my butt but I'm certain it won't be inviting me into its home for fly wings and lemonade. My white ass descending on the spider's web would certainly be seen as an invasion and the spider would, almost understandably, retaliate in whatever way a spider can.

Back to the treehouse. Thank god I had the paranoid good sense to check the toilet for arachnids but now that this nightmare had come true I certainly couldn't pee. And, according to my bladder, I certainly couldn't *not* pee. An impasse. But worry not! Your quick thinking intrepid heroine had a bucket and a plan. I stuck the flush bucket under the facet of the sink filling it to brimming while keeping my eye on Daddy Super Long Legs over there and then bravely leaned towards the pot and dumped all of the water, then filled the bucket a second time and doused again. The toilet had a hose that snaked its way 50 feet from the treehouse platform down into the jungle floor and I figured that if I could wash the spider at least to ground level and then pee as quickly as possible he couldn't climb back up the hose fast enough to launch a counter attack. The plan was executed perfectly and my still spider bite free toucas scurried back up the steps and practically dove into bed. Pulling the blankets tightly around my neck I lay my head back down and again listened to the chirp, rattle, peep of the forest -- this time with the assurance that I was safe in my own burrow until morning.

At dawn, after an unsuccessful Gibbon tracking hike through a jungle filled with mist and a breakfast experiment of tomato omelet and sticky rice (marginally successful), I sat perched on the edge of our treehouse with a mug of bitter over-steeped tea. My gazing out over the canopy was interrupted by a tickling on my right foot which I reached down to scratch as I slowly pulled my gaze from the distracting beauty of the forest -- so my eyes and my fingers met their nightmare together. Perched on the arch of my foot just right of center where my white flip flop tan line extends over the top of a juicy green vein a blob of gray snot the size of a lima bean was perched. Oh, but it was worse then it sounds because even more terrifying than the thought that someone had shot a huge booger onto my foot was the reality that a leech was clamped into my bloodline sucking away. My mug of tea crashed onto the floor and of course I screamed as I performed the most violent hokey pokey with my foot, managing to successfully dislodge Nature's Vampire. A river of bright red blood poured from my vein as Geoff and my treemates danced around me looking for the evil leech and eventually forcing his blood fattened body through a seam between two of the floorboards. For the duration of our trip I couldn't walk more than 25 feet without pausing for a thorough leach check.

Night two in the jungle and again I'm awakened by the call of nature (and also, again, surrounded by the many calls of actual nature). This is surprising as we spent day two hiking up hills that no human should ascend and zipping across the jungle at speeds previously known only to gibbons and NASCAR drivers. I admired brown and white butterflies too big for jam jars proving that not all gigantic insects are evil. I should be too tired to pee. As I lie in bed, willing my bladder to shut the fuck up I could only think that last night's midnight jaunt into hell's bathroom was horribly dangerous and ill advised. The number of ways I could have died (not to mention accidentally eaten a bug) were myriad. Never mind the aquatic spider attack -- I could have stepped on a poisonous snake, I could have been attacked by Rodents of Unusual Size, I could have startled by a moth, slipped on a damp board and fell over the side of the treehouse! I cursed my bladder over and over again but as usual mentally willing oneself to an empty bladder was wholly ineffective. I cannot blame PMS or mommy brain or any of the other easy excuses for the following embarrassing situation -- perhaps it was the bit of sleep still clinging to my mind but most likely I'm just a much much bigger baby then I'd like to admit. As I sat up in our bed mulling over my options (1. Use the cup we brought up to brush our teeth as a makeshift upstairs toilet, 2. Get up, make it half way down the stairs, be attacked by some unknown creature and die, 3. Will myself not to pee and eventually lose control and turn our boudoir into a makeshift diaper) I began... to cry. I KNOW. At this Geoff woke up and was thankfully too annoyed to actively mock me. I couldn't will myself to rise and face the haunted treehouse alone and so eventually Geoff was forced to slip onto his white horse and escort his princess to the loo. Oh romance, will you ever die?

So, again, I lived. Despite the obvious threat of death I cannot recommend The Gibbon Experience enough. I have never felt smaller, or more alone that I did huddled in the copula of the treehouse surrounded by creepy crawlies and trees the size of skyscrapers. I have never felt adrenaline pump through my veins or stared in awe as acutely as I did soaring between treehouses on a metal cable high above the jungle. I have never known love as big as a man willing to rise from bed, brave a world of dangerous beasties and escort me to the potty.

(more stunning pictures here)