The Dumb Things We Do With Our Friends

Don't you think sign like this really should show up 

well before Mile 12? It could prevent people from

doing something dumb, like running another 38

miles after you see a sign like this.

I honestly debated whether the title of this entry should be "The Dumb Things We Do Because of Our Friends," but after reading this you will hopefully agree with my decision to go with the title that I did.  And it should come as no surprise to anyone that this blog entry will deal with running.  You know, just like both of my posts from last year (see here and here).

It's not like any of us have never been in trouble or have done something stupid made some poor decisions because of our friends.  You know, like a 15-year old kid getting kicked out of Timpanogos Cave National Monument because of something dumb his friends did and his youth leaders decided he was guilty by association.  But I'm not talking about something hypothetical like that where you got in trouble or did something foolish because of your friends.  I'm talking about the things we do with our friends, knowing fully well ahead of time that it might be difficult, dirty, and perhaps even painful.  You know, like a Tough Mudder.  Or a 50-mile ultramarathon.


That's right, earlier this month, I attempted and completed my first 50-mile race, all because a friend suggested it.  By a lot of measures, 50 miles in one day is a pretty dumb thing to do.  Even after I swore off ultramarathons immediately after finishing a 50K trail race in April, I trained through the disgustingly hot summer months so that I could run the Pilot Mountain to Hanging Rock Ultra in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina with my friend.  Yeah, some of my friends and family would say this was a pretty dumb thing to do.  They're entitle to their opinions, we can debate the merits of their arguments later. :-)

I thought a bit about this particular subject during my training runs--I've had some interesting thoughts while running before--and I realized that I started running races twenty-two years ago because of a friend.  Way back in 1995, I had a PE class at BYU that required I run a mile-and-a-half for my grade.  Throughout that semester, my roommate and longtime friend Rob and I ran together because I wanted to get an A and Rob was getting in shape for soccer tryouts.  Two weeks after the semester ended, Rob called me and asked if I wanted to run The Salt Lake Classic 10K.  I didn't even know how long a 10K was--Rob's answer when I asked was, "Uh, it's like five miles or something like that"--and I said, "Sure!" and I've been running races of varying distances ever since.  For the record, that first 10K still stands as my fastest time at that distance so far.  Probably always will be, but that's not the point.


Remember that 50K back in April that I mentioned earlier?  It was a miserable second half of the race for me, and immediately after I texted my friend Kenny and said there was no way I would even consider another ultra ever, let alone the PM2HR race in October.  I'm not totally sure, but it might have had something to do with puking on the school bus that was taking me back to my car.  That same night, after a delicious and necessary recovery meal at Five Guys (where else?) and a plethora of text messages back and forth, the last thing Kenny texted me before I went to bed was, "When you wake up tomorrow and come to your senses, go sign up for Pilot Mountain."  And because my dear Mali was in Utah for a wedding and wasn't there to talk me out of it, I signed up.

I'm grateful that Mali went down with me; driving to North Carolina by myself would have been incredibly boring, and there was always the possibility that I wouldn't be able to drive myself back home the day after the race.  She got to hang out in Winston-Salem while we were running, but I think it's still an open question as to which one of us had more fun that Saturday.  I'll say it was probably me, but I think Mali might say that she had more fun.  She might be right, but I got a hoodie for the race, so in my opinion I came out ahead on that argument.

Kenny motoring up the steps up to the peak of
Pilot Mountain.  It felt like one of those Escher
prints with the neverending stairs.  And I kept
waiting for an army of Uruk-hai to come charging
up thehill from the cover of the fog.

The story of the race was the same story of so many ultras.  There was some weather to deal with: we started in the dark, ran through the fog at the top of Pilot Mountain, had some long stretches of sunshine with little shade and finished in the dark (at least there wasn't rain, snow, and sleet like I had at The North Face Endurance Challenge 50K last year).  There was physical adversity: Kenny got stung on the leg by a yellow jacket before we hit the first aid station and that caused a bit of discomfort.  Add to that, Kenny wasn't able to train as much as he would like because life got in the way and he also ended up with hyponatremia--ask me about that one, I know far too well how that thing works--meant he had to drop out after 50K.  This race had two serious climbs that reached upwards of 2,400 feet.  Each.  The total elevation gain for this course was officially over 5,200 feet, but we think it was closer to 6,000 when you factor in all the smaller ups and downs.  And you had to come down from those heights, too, which can be just as taxing on your quads as the climbs and are undoubtedly harder on the knees.

And before anyone, especially Kenny himself, thinks anything less of Kenny for dropping out at 50K, I want them to think about it: he had only run twice in the month preceding the race because of family and work obligations, but he still completed 50 kilometers.  That's THIRTY ONE MILES.  Seriously undertrained and Kenny still finished thirty one miles.  Kenny is a beast.  This is the same guy who finished a 50K with me back in 2014 while suffering the effects of Lyme disease (he didn't know he had it).  I would have tapped out at 10, maybe 12 miles.  He also deserves kudos for recognizing that pushing any further would have caused him injury.  I sincerely appreciate his encouragement for me and insistence that I push forward and finish the 50 miler without him.  I've been where he was, and it's not easy, especially when you have the fire in your belly to finish the race.  There is no shame in a DNF* for an ultramarathon.  Anyone who says otherwise is a fool.

I told you I finished in the dark.  And I have a hoodie just
like Kenny's.  Pretty stinkin' awesome, and because I've
worn it pretty much every day since the race, it's now just
pretty stinkin'.  And that's awesome.

So I finished the race, and I had told my wife and my friends and my coworkers that this would be my last ultramarathon.  Yeah, I know, I've said that before, but this time I really meant it.  I really meant it right up until Sunday morning when Kenny and I were doing our usual post-race postmortem and talking about what we would do differently next time.  Kenny told his wife that he wants another crack at the race because he wants redemption.  I told Mali and I want another crack at the course because I want to finish the race before the battery on my Suunto Ambit dies (I have never been fast, but I think I could shave a couple of hours off this race).  But I also recognize that I have some other pretty serious obligations coming up, so I got Mali's permission to try PM2HR again in 2019.  That gives me two years.

Bring it on.






*DNF = Did Not Finish.

Of a Resolution (Finally) Kept and Lessons Learned

For the last three years I have had made one New Year's resolution, one goal.  Same goal each of those three years.  Run 1,000 miles during the calendar year.

I have never been one to make too many New Year's resolutions.  I am a firm believer in making goals and working to achieve them, but I'm not the type that at the start of each new year makes a list of things I will and won't do.  This was something that I really wanted to do, though.

In 2014 I finally accomplished this goal.  For me, it's a HUGE milestone.  I like to run; both of my blog readers can tell you that.  I am not a fast runner, I am competitive only with myself.  I have actually won my age group in two races.  Both time, I was the only one in my age group.  So it's not like I'm some amazing running guru.

In both 2012 and 2013 I came woefully short of my goal.  Like a couple hundred miles short.  I can make excuses for why it didn't happen.  I had injuries that took me out for weeks at a time in each of those years.  I had a challenging work schedule.  I was traveling, blah-blah-blah.

But this past year, I did it.  One thousand miles.  Aside from the obvious physical benefits of running, I think the spiritual lessons I learned are of greater worth to me.  It took over 170 hours of running over the year, and I had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.  My family, my seminary class, my job, the world in general, my relationship with my Heavenly Father.  Sure, I thought about running, too, but often my internal musings inclined towards the application of what I was doing to life in general, such as:

• The journey of a thousand miles does not happen in a single day.  It requires persistence and dedicated effort spread out over a long time.  A few miles every day adds up over time, and you cannot forget that even those quick, little efforts are part of the long-term cumulative goal.
• When the big tests in life come, you can see the strength that comes from consistent, daily efforts to strengthen yourself.  You cannot decide that you will run a marathon a couple of days or even a couple of weeks before and expect to do well.  You need to get those daily, short training runs in, with the occasional long runs.  Likewise, when those trials in life come--and they will inevitably come--we will be better prepared to deal with them with our Father's help when we have made consistent, daily efforts to include Him in our lives through regular prayer and scripture study.
• Despite our best intentions and constant efforts, we will still have bad days.  It doesn't mean that we are bad or that we are failing or that Heavenly Father has abandoned us.  It just means that some days are better than others.  We don't define ourselves by those bad days.  We learn from them and move on with the hope that tomorrow will be better.
• Progress requires dedicated, concentrated efforts, and sometimes those efforts can seem boring, repetitious, or even a little lame.  If you want to run faster, you have to dedicate parts of your training to actually run faster.  Hoping or wishing that you will is not sufficient.  Case in point: I really do not enjoy speed workouts, but I cannot deny that my overall pace has improved because of them, hence I continue to incorporate track and hill workouts into my training regimen.  If you want to have a greater understanding of God's word, you have to be willing to immerse yourself in the scriptures and study the teachings of His prophets, even when it seems like you've already done that a million times.
• Building on all the points above, variety can be a good thing.  Sure, I could have run the same route every day and eventually I would have reached my goal.  But some days I knew I wouldn't be able to run more than a few miles.  Other days I felt like I could take on the world and I ran much, much further.  Some days I want to dig into the scriptures and spend lots of time finding all the passages that relate to a given topic and cross referencing them between the Book of Mormon and the Bible and the Doctrine and Covenants.  Other times I want to read a talk from a recent General Conference and take that quick thought with me for the day.  Either one of these is better than doing nothing.
• Family and friends are invaluable.  No, they can't run for you, you have to do that yourself.  No, they can't read your scriptures for you, you have to do that yourself.  But they can support you, they can offer you words of encouragement, they can be there right beside you.  I would not have made it to 1,000 miles without the help of my friend Kenny.  The hours of training together are one thing, but without him, I literally would not have completed my first ultramarathon.  Likewise, without my amazing, sweet, incomparable wife Mali, I would not be half the man I am today.  She makes me want to be a better husband, father, and man.

There are other lessons--I've been toying with the idea of writing an allegory of the runner for use in my seminary class--but I'll save those for later.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go run.  I think today is a speed day.  Another thousand miles doesn't just happen on its own.

I've Been Uchtdorfed

I've been going through another one of those periods where I feel guilty about not having put anything in my blog for months on end.  I mean, every month I tell myself that I will write something, I'll put something here, and before you know it, another month has come and gone and I haven't written anything.

And then, over Spring Break (yes, it was two weeks ago, but let's not have a guilt trip over that), something happened.  It was Tuesday night, I was walking from my office to the car.  The wind was blowing the snow--yes, you read that correctly, SNOW--horizontally, so I had to hold my umbrella perpendicular to my body just so I could see.  And in my mind I was grumbling about how it's supposed to be spring break and why on earth is it even snowing, grumble-grumble-grumble.

I settled into my car, turned on the engine, and what was it that I heard?  The amazing German-accented advice from Dieter F. Uchtdorf, second counselor in the First Presidency of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that he gave in the Sunday morning session of General Conference this past April.  I've taken to listening to recordings of General Conference during my commute because I find things that are not only useful for my early-morning seminary classes, but there's so much there that helps me just be a better person.

Anyway, President Uchtdorf said:

"Could I suggest that we see gratitude as a disposition, a way of life that stands independent of our current situation? In other words, I’m suggesting that instead of being thankful for things, we focus on being thankful in our circumstances—whatever they may be."

And that got me thinking.  I have so much to be grateful for, even when it might not look like I should be thankful for those things:

• I'm grateful that I'm tired.  I'm tired because I have a job that I enjoy and I get to spend every school morning with some of the most amazing teenagers you'll ever meet.  Yes, I'm exhausted sometimes, but it's worth it.
• I'm grateful that children poke me and wake me up from my nap on the couch to say good-bye before they go to school in the morning.
• I'm grateful for my sweet daughter who covers me with her blanket while taking said naps so that I won't be cold.
• I'm grateful for my oldest daughter and the high-school attitude she cops with us sometimes, because it shows me that she's starting to grow into an independent young woman.
• I'm grateful for a wife who complains about my sometimes difficult work schedule, because it means she is concerned about my health and wants to spend time me.  It means so much that she lets me sleep in on Sunday mornings.
• I'm also grateful that she doesn't complain when I tell her I'm going for a three-hour run on a Saturday.
• I'm grateful for those days, like yesterday, when it rains so hard that you can hardly see out the window, because it means we're getting water for the beautiful trees and flowers that make Virginia so awesome (apologies to my wife and others who suffer from allergies!).
• I'm grateful for those phone calls from my in-laws that come at sometimes awkward times of the day, because it means they're thinking about our family and they want to talk to us.
• I'm grateful for indoor plumbing.  Not that it's a burden, I'm just constantly grateful for it.

So many other things to be grateful for, but hopefully I can always remember to be grateful, regardless of my situation.  Even if I do have to remember to do so with a slight German accent.

It Totally Happened Again!

Once again, had a day off work and nothing went to plan.  About two months ago I started working a flex schedule where I get one day every two weeks off.  Every fifth week or so I have Sunday duty, but when I do that, I get Monday off.  So in theory, I should be able to get lots of stuff done on those free days, but it rarely actually happens.  But, as my dear wife said to me today, "You got a lot done, just nothing that you had planned on."

The Plan

Right after seminary I planned on walking my younger kids to school, and then I was going to get started on this translation project and knock out the hardest part of it, maybe finish folding the clean laundry, get my haircut, write an amazingly witty blog entry, and try to get a decent workout in there somewhere, too.  I was going to do all this before the kids got home from school, because they wanted to play a little tennis for family night, and I was cool with that.

What Actually Happened

• Got home from seminary, fell asleep in the easy chair in our living room.  The kids overslept a smidge and therefore had to be driven to school by their mother, because, as already noted, I was asleep in the easy chair in the living room.
• Eventually woke up and gathered my materials for the translation project to the dining room table, and realized how annoying it is that my laptop defaults to a Lao font that I really do not like.  Spent at least three hours today trying different things, including exploring system settings with regedit, to get the darn thing to default to my preferred font.  I have nothing to show for those efforts.
• I did get to spend a couple of hours with my wife, and the consumption of hamburgers was part of that experience.  Elevation Burger is pretty good--they have milkshakes--but Five Guys is still my favorite.
• About that haircut--yeah, I got it.  I had something in my hair.  First time I've paid for a haircut in over two years.  First time I've paid for haircut in America in over five years.  I'm still trying to decide if it will be another five years before I pay for another one.  Mali sincerely hopes not.
• Connected the BluRay player in the basement to our cable modem so that the kids can stream Netflix in HD in the basement.  No, seriously, it's for the kids...
• Speaking of TVs, I finally mounted the TV upstairs on the wall so that Mali has full, unfettered use of the top her buffet.  And we discovered that you can adjust the TV so you can see it while at the kitchen sink and stove.  I'm not sure much good will come of this.
• I finally fixed that pesky towel bar in the basement bathroom that kept falling off.
• We did go hit some tennis balls tonight.  It felt good to run around a little bit, it's something I've been really missing (getting old and rehabbing injuries sucks--DON'T GET OLD!).
• As for that blog post, well...

Now if I can just figure out how to get that darn Lao font to default to my preference.  Oh, and figure out why blogspot won't let me made comments TO MY OWN BLOG POSTS!

Channeling Dorothy Gale

Multnomah Falls, Oregon

This summer we loaded the family up and went on an epic roadtrip.  We drove from the verdant forests of Virginia to the cornfields of Illinois and the Midwest, through the arid high plains of Wyoming to the majestic mountains of Utah (including a dip in the Great Salt Lake!), across the dry moonscape of eastern Oregon to the lush beauty of the Pacific Northwest.  Then, after about a month, we drove back through it all to get home.

Wherever we go, Mali and I have these conversations about how we could live there.  We have friends and family scattered all over, and there are wonderful things about every one of the places we’ve gone to visit, chief among those being our friends and family who mean so much to us.  When we say, “We would love to live here!” we genuinely mean it.

Great Salt Lake, Utah

In the almost eighteen years Mali and I have been married, we’ve lived in four states, criss-crossed the United States multiple times, and even gone overseas for a spell, and we have had been blessed and our lives have been immensely enriched by the experiences we’ve had and the people we’ve associated with.  I honestly believe that we could live anywhere and be happy, as long as we have each other.  And indoor plumbing.  As long as we have each other and indoor plumbing, we're good.

That said, the old adage, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home” rings true for us every time we return from one of our adventures.  It was fantastic to spend a month away, going back to Utah and Washington and spending so much time with our families—and we musn’t forget how much we enjoyed being with our friends in Illinois as well.  Without detracting at all from the great times we had on vacation, there’s just something about coming home to my own abode, sleeping again in my own bed, returning to the regular rhythm of everyday life that is soothing to my soul.  May it ever be so, I earnestly hope and pray.

Wherever we go, we are a happy family

 

Don't You Hate Days Like That

You know the kind of day I'm talking about, the kind of day when you have grand plans to get lots of stuff done because the kids are in school and you have the day off.  And then nothing you planned on doing gets done because other things came up.

Things like enjoying a nice lunch with your wife at a restaurant you've never tried before.

Things like taking a nap because early morning seminary has wiped you out (and it's only the second day...I am in so much trouble).

Things like taking the family out to play tennis, then enjoying ice cream cones at a place that might well be the best kept secret in Fairfax.

In the end I did get around to some of the other things I'd planned on, but the fact that I got to spend the bulk of a beautiful late summer day with my wife, just relaxing, was priceless.  No better way to spend the day, actually.

Don't call me Mali, call me Madame.

(I found this while cleaning out my blog.  Somehow I never clicked "Publish" when I first composed this back in 2009...still, it's a funny story, so I have to share.)

One of the luxuries we have here in Thailand is a housekeeper. She did not come with the house, we did have to do a lot of grueling work to find her. And by "grueling work" I mean that we found her on the embassy shuttle our first full day in Bangkok. She was with her (now former) employer, who was leaving for the United States the next day. We set up an interview for two days later, and we hired her.

On Nam Pheung's first day of work--Nam Pheung is our housekeeper--she kept using a phrase that made Mali think that, despite Nam Pheung's limited English skills, she at least knew at least one curse word. You know, the one that rhymes with "ham." Mali thought that perhaps we had hired an angry Thai who resented working for Americans. She wondered if perhaps she should teach Nam Pheung that it would be more kid-friendly to say "my dang" to everything.

And then it dawned on Mali that Nam Pheung was addressing her as "madame."

Yeah, I Have Issues...

First and foremost, let me say that I love my wife and admire her patience with me.  Especially when it comes to that one issue with which I seem to have a never-ending fascination and continual struggle: my hair.

Now folks who knew me back in high school might remember that at that time I sported a decent mop of hair--but that was the late 80s/early 90s, and big hair was the norm.  I can honestly and with so small amount of pride say that I never rocked a mullet, however, as a recent review of my senior yearbook revealed was far more popular at my high school than I remember.  In fact, my hair has never been over my shirt collar, and I've never liked it if my hair touched my ears...although I have long wondered what it would be like to have really long hair, like the drummer from Hootie and the Blowfish.

Since about 1995 and the first time I took a razor to my scalp, I have tended to keep my hair more on the short side, and in recent years really short.  Here's where I admit I'm probably bi-polar.  It's not that I don't want hair--in fact, right after I cut it all off, quite often I wish I hadn't gone quite so short.  On the other hand, I really don't like combing my hair, especially since I have to get up really early.  And then there's my life-long aversion to using "product" to style my hair, but my wispy hair refuses to do anything other than stick out at my cowlicks or hang straight down.  And I won't get into my issues about paying for haircuts that look like crap, except to say why would I pay for a horrible haircut when I can do it myself for free?  Oh, and it doesn't help that a co-worker recently pointed out that I have a few gray hairs.

Now Mali, bless her heart, has told me before that she likes how I look with hair that might actually require combing, but of late has resigned herself to the fact that 90 percent of my self-inflicted haircuts end with me being very close to bald.  I recently decided that maybe it was time to try growing it out again, but that still requires occasional maintenance around the back and ears, and tonight was one of those touch-up sessions.

After I finished cutting my hair and showered and cleaned up the bathroom, I asked Mali what she thought.  Her reply: "What, are you trying to have a hairstyle or something?"

WHAAAAAAAT?!!!

She did follow it up with some comments along the lines of, "You'll just end up cutting it all of anyway." and "I stopped trying to get you to grow it out years ago."

I think the reality is that Mali is trying to use reverse psychology to get me to grow my hair out again.  But I think I'm on to her wily methods...

Well, Hello There, November!

I was going to title this entry "Obligatory Thanksgiving Post" but I did that back in 2009.  It's okay, I know you really want to check and see if I really did.  Go ahead, search for it using the handy-dandy archive on the right-hand side of your screen.  One hint: it's not in November.

Anywho, I figured I should take a few minutes and jot something so utterly profound that anyone reading this blog would immediately think about changing jobs, going back to school, or at least considering a different method for arranging their sock drawer.  To have such an impact, however, would require that more than three people read my blog.  So I'll just fall back on the ever reliable, always consistent, and seasonally appropriate outpouring of thanks.

I'm grateful to be back in the United States.  We had such an amazing experience in Thailand, and we're looking forward to our next overseas assignment (whenever that is), but I really, really love living in America.  Potable tap water, (mostly) predictable traffic, and distinct seasons are but a few of the things that I've been very happy to reacquaint myself with since returning.  I'm also happy to have more than one running route, and topographic variation that make running much more interesting.

Those pale in comparison with how thankful I am for my family.  I have an amazing wife, full of patience, love, and compassion.  And she's a great kisser to boot.  My children continually impress me with their creativity, their inspiration, and their boundless energy.  My children also continually frustrate me with their creativity, their inspiration, and their boundless energy.  They are healthy, they're (mostly) happy, and so far they're all shorter than me.  What more could a man ask for?

I'm grateful for my parents, their love and inspiration.  They've put up with me longer than anyone else, and for that they deserve a medal.  Likewise I'm grateful for my mother- and father-in-law, for their sacrifice and service, the example they give to their children and grandchildren.

Lastly, I'm grateful I get to teach early morning seminary.  No, seriously, I really am thankful for the opportunity.  I'm so impressed with the dedication and enthusiasm those high school kids bring every morning.  Sure, it can be tiring, but let's be honest--do I have anything better to do at 6 a.m.?

Okay, time to go to bed.  Six a.m. comes really early.

Oh Yes, She Did Eat That...

As our good friend Heidi recently blogged, McDonald's here in Thailand has decided to offer a radical new delicacy as part of their dessert menu (Heidi, you can thank me later for the serious bump in traffic to your blog caused by my two faithful readers--thanks Mom, hi Maggie!).  And my dear wife, being the intrepid woman she is, decided that she simply had to give it a go at our most recent family outing to the Golden Arches.

I made that picture extra large so you can see what highlighted.  Yes indeed, my friends, Mali did in fact purchase and consume the McDonald's Broccoli Pie.  Remember folks, this is the same country that offers vanilla ice cream with corn swirl (KFC) and the taro and corn dessert pie (gee, thanks Burger King, not sure what I would have done without that in my life...).

Not only did Mali herself partake, she asked our children to taste it.  Anne said she got lucky and only had some of the cheese.  Benjamin, a self-proclaimed broccoli-phile, said that he really liked it.  After finishing said "delicacy" (I use that word in the same context I would for those fried insects you can buy from street vendors), Mali said that it was a little too sweet, as the outside was exactly the same as what they use for their apple pies.

I'll take their word for it.

Looking at Really Old Stuff

I thought about naming this post "Ayutthaya vs. Angkor" but I didn't want to start any international incidents, particularly given the current state of Thai-Cambodian relations.  But the impetus for these particular musings come from a family outing to Ayutthaya, coming one month after Mali and I went to Cambodia.  Yeah, I'm a hopeless romantic who takes his wife to Phnom Penh to see a genocide museum and then to a sprawling testament to the results of slave labor for a honeymoon.  Ayutthaya was a day trip with the family.  Both are World Heritage Sites, but Ayutthaya is in danger of losing its World Heritage status, even as the city has applied to host the 2020 World Expo.

This was in the Angkor Archeological Park at  Ta Phrom.  Ta Phrom is awe-inspiring because of the massive trees that have grown around, over, and on the old temple.  A lot of people call it "The Tomb Raider Temple" because part of the movie starring Angelina Jolie was filmed here.  While the Angkor architecture is pretty amazing, what is more amazing to me is the way that nature has a way of outlasting it all.  Still, kudos to Cambodia for doing a lot to make sure that people can visit these temples safely (there were several areas that were off limits this time around which I was able to freely scramble all over when I last visited in 2006).

This is part of the "Leaning Meaningfully in a Doorway" series that Mali and I started on our trip to Cambodia.  The upper is at a temple in Angkor, the lower is at Ayutthaya.  The most obvious difference between the two is the manner of construction: the Angkor builders used big, heavy stones which were intricately carved.  For reasons unknown to me--mostly because I'm simply too lazy to look it up--the builders of Ayutthaya used bricks, which they then covered in stucco.  There were a few monuments in Ayutthaya that still had some stucco on them, a few of which still had some of the detail work still visible.  Still, in the contest of who had more embellishments that have stood the test of the centuries, Angkor wins, hands down.

What does this have to do with Angkor or Ayutthaya?  Nothing, really.  I just wanted to show how Mali used a hand towel to keep the dust out of her face while we traveled around Angkor in a tuk-tuk.  Now she knows why all the Cambodians in Siem Reap have a krama, the traditional Khmer scarf that has 101 uses, including keeping dust out of your face.  I have a similar cloth from Northeast Thailand that I had included in my luggage for the trip, for some inexplicable reason I didn't think to give it to Mali before we toured the temples.  My bad.

This is your first moment of zen for this blog post.  I love the color contrast of the gray Angkor stones and the bright orange of the monks robes.  It would be way more zen-like if I didn't tell you that the monk is talking on a mobile phone.

The first clue that this one is at Ayutthaya is that the kids are there--the Cambodia trip was a second honeymoon for Mali and I.  The second clue is the architecture.  The Angkor empire was Hindu, while Ayutthaya was Buddhist, and pictures above and below are clearly more Buddhist than Hindu.  Clearly.

This was a great family picture at Ayutthaya.  I'll have to ask around and find out why this particular monument still had the stucco facing on it while all around it were piles of bricks.

This is your second moment of zen. Sarah has this whole inner peace thing down pat.  Well, at least she did for the time it took to take a photograph.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil

This is your third moment of zen.   With the exception of my family photos, this was the coolest shot I got in Ayutthaya.  You'll notice the statues have no heads.  This is also common in Angkor--the reason is that treasure hunters and thieves have stolen them all.  So, if I come to your house and see a stone Buddha head that looks like it might have come from Angkor or Ayutthaya, you'll excuse me if I go a little nuts and possible try and return it to its rightful owner.

This was the coolest moment of the day.

 

My family in front of the Buddha head in the tree.  Cambodia doesn't have one of these!

An Open Letter to My Brother

Hey there big bro,

Are we going to make this the third year running for the hair-based wager on the outcome of the BYU-Utah football game?  As I understand it, you have been growing your hair out this year, at the behest of your lovely wife (and to her delight and the delight of our parents--at least that's the rumor I've heard), so you might not want to put those lovely locks on the line. To be honest, my wife asked that I let my hair grow out a little, too, but that was specifically for the Marine Ball, which was last weekend.  So I'm good.

Nevermind the fact that the outcome of this year's Big Game is 99% already determined.  Nevermind that my Cougs are stinking up the field in ways that should never be shown in front of small children, pregnant women, or those with a history of heart disease.  Forget the fact that your Utes have been a fine-tuned football machine (I'm conveniently leaving out the TCU and Notre Dame games for the sake of hyperbole).  Don't pay any attention to the fact that the game is at Utah this year.  Anything can happen with this game, so I'll understand if you back out of the wager this year for fear of having to face your wife with a fantasticly gorgeous Y shaved into your hair.  And Mali wouldn't cry too much about it if we didn't have the bet this year. My kids might, though...

Your younger (and taller) brother,
Brent

Overheard at Snack Time

Mali and I were sitting at our new kitchen table (love it!), working at our separate laptops.  Jane decided that she needed a little something to eat, so Mali started feeding her.  Have I mentioned that at two years and seven months old Jane is still not weaned?  Mali has said she wants to wean Jane, but hasn't brought herself to break that particular tie.

So, we're sitting here, the three of us, and Mali said, "I can't believe I'm nursing Jane."  Slight pause, then Mali said, in one of those voices intended to mimic my deep, manly tones, "But you probably can."

Naturally I replied, "I can."

Just as naturally and without missing a beat, Jane said, "I can."

Hasn't anyone told her it's not polite to talk with your mouth full?

Random Christmas Musings

Christmas morning I went outside, took a deep breath and inhaled the wonderful smell of wood fires.  I would say it reminded me of Christmas as a child, but that wouldn't be true since we did not have a fireplace or wood-burning stove growing up.  The fires here were not in celebration of Christmas, it was just the local residents trying to keep warm because the temperature had dipped into the lower 70s.  Positively frigid.  Now that I think about it, if the temperatures ever do get below, say 60 degrees Fahrenheit, we might be in serious trouble, because have no way to heat our house--our house only has A/C.

One major key to making life work here is adaptability.  Santa Claus, being the wise old elf that he is, knows this:

Reindeer?  In Thailand?  Don't be ridiculous!  Here Santa rides a cool green scooter.  And you can't see it in this picture, but his pants only go to the knees, allowing for better air circulation.  I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Ol' Saint Nick's tropical outfit has several little fans strategically placed to keep him from overheating.

Our kids loved Christmas this year.  Mali totally scored a deal when she found these awesome Christmas stockings and had them embroidered with our names.

My only question: why did Sarah get the red stocking?

Mali, looking as lovely as ever in the beautiful scarf/wrap/thingie that I "bought" for her.  In other words, she found it, she bought it, she wrapped it up, and she labeled it as from me.  Aren't I a great husband?

We aren't really big on hard, fast, tried-and-true Christmas traditions in our family, but one that Mali and I have tried to carry over comes my family growing up, and that is eating what we call "Sodermuffins."  Yes, sounds like a blatant rip-off of McMuffins.  It is.  And the similarities don't end there.  This little piece of Christmas morning delight consists of an egg, cheese, and ham or sausage, all on a toasted English muffin.  Sound familiar, because it should.  Delicious.  We did break one small convention for our Christmas morning meal, in that we did not eat the traditional Soderborg breakfast cake (my mother's awesome recipe).  We made a bold departure and had it for dinner.

This picture is proof of another long-standing Christmas tradition; the mid-morning daddy nap.  Jane, undoubtedly with some prompting from her mother and encouragement from her older siblings, decided to interrupt my peaceful slumber with the ever-effective nose-poke.

So to make up for it she tried to give me a kiss, but it looks like she's ready to gnaw off my cheek.  Such a sweet little girl!  This actually has nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever, it's just really cute.

Closing thought: would you trade a white Christmas for being able to play tennis with your wife in the morning and then take your kids swimming OUTSIDE on Christmas day?  Because that's what we did on Christmas day.

Tennis, Anyone?

Last week Mali and I had the opportunity to play in the US Embassy versus the Royal Bangkok Sports Club Tennis Classic.  Okay, that wasn't really the name, but it sounds a lot better than the "Royal Bangkok Sports Club Beats the Snot Out of the US Embassy.  Again."  The last time we had this head-to-head competition the RBSC won 14 matches and the US Embassy won three.

For those of you who don't know, back in high school I played a lot of tennis.  This fact might surprise people who know about my passion for soccer and may incorrectly assume that soccer has always been my first love.  Anyway, back in the day I really enjoyed tennis and I was actually a serviceable player.  Since college, however, I haven't played as much as I probably ought; I can still knock the ball around a bit, and I still like playing.

Since we moved to Thailand Mali has been playing a lot of tennis.  She's always had a good forehand, but now that she's playing a couple of times a week it's positively wicked.  And her backhand has improved by leaps and bounds.  So when I got an e-mail a few weeks ago asking for players to compete against the RBSC, I let it be known that we would be available if they needed more bodies.  The coordinator was a fellow who was in Mali's tennis class, so he signed us right up.

The matches were all doubles, and they weren't really matches.  Each "match" was actually only one set.  Mali and I were not paired together, which was probably for the best as I am easily distracted by how cute she looks in her tennis outfits.  She was part of the only mixed doubles team, and they did the US Embassy proud by winning their first match in the tie-break.  Mali and her partner went to the tie-break in their second match, too, and unfortunately they lost.  But Mali was still the hottest-looking player out there, hands down.

At this point I think I should mention that the matches were played on grass.  I had never played on grass before, and despite the ambassador's proclamation that it's "just like playing on hard courts, only grassier," there are some key differences.  First, the ball skids off the surface a little more, so you have to get lower to hit it back.  Second, the ball doesn't always bounce where you think it will because of inconsistencies in the surface.  Still, it's easy on the knees, and the RBSC's grass courts are absolutely world-class.

My own first match was very frustrating for me (which is the first clue that we lost) because of my own inconsistency.  The guys we played didn't really beat us, they let us beat ourselves.  My partner, Ted, and I both agreed that with a bit more consistency we could have easily won our match.  By our second match I got into my groove and we won quite handily.

All told we still lost, but we didn't get quite the beating we took last time--we won eight matches and lost 13 this time around.  I'd like to say that Mali and I were the key difference, but that would be neither true nor humble.  A wonderful end to a fun day was the barbecue at the Ambassador's residence.  Now lest you have the impression that the Ambassador himself was out there manning the grill, it was a catered barbecue.  But it was still delicious, and quite fun to chat with the people who just finished handing our butts to us.

Fourteen Fantastic Years...Thanks, Babe

Today marks fourteen years since Mail and I were joined forever as husband and wife.  It would be foolish and untruthful to say that they have been fourteen years of pure bliss.  Of course there have been ups and downs; there must needs be an opposition in all things.  How do we know the sweet if we have not experienced the bitter? By my accounting, though, we've been blessed to experience much more of the sweet.

There is no other person on this planet that I would rather have by my side, however, throughout these past fourteen years than Mali and she is the one I want with me throughout eternity.  Her patience with me is endless and unconditional.  Mali has given me five beautiful children and made me a better man in more ways than she may ever know.

1995

We were just kids, but doesn't she look fantastic?

2009

Fourteen years later and she's even more beautiful than the day I married her.

Mali, I love you.  I truly am the luckiest man alive.  Here's looking forward to the next forty years.

Prom for Grown-ups

Last week the missus and I had the opportunity to participate in our very first embassy Marine Ball.  For those of you who don't know November 10 is the birthday of the United States Marine Corps, and on that date the Marines celebrate the founding of the Corps.  In an embassy environment such as ours, where we have a Marine detachment, there is usually a Marine Ball on a weekend close to that date, and it's a big deal for a lot of folks.  As referenced in the post title, it's like prom for grown-ups.  Actually, some of the Marines in attendance are only a year or two removed from their own high school proms, and, well, let's just say that their dates looked somewhat less...refined than most others in attendance.  Now let me say that I mean in no way to soil the good name of the Marines--they do invaluable work in protecting the United States of America and they have my undying gratitude for their service and professionalism.  But those boys know how to party.

So, Mali and I joined in the fun along with the other folks in our neighborhood from the Embassy.  One definite of advantage of being in Bangkok is that you can easily get custom-made clothing.  Like most of the women around here, Mali went and got herself a custom ball-gown, and it was beautiful.  I offer the following photographic evidence:

Oh, and for those of you keeping track at home, yes, I am wearing a tuxedo.  Not only am I wearing a tuxedo, I am wearing my very own tuxedo, custom-made just for me.  And as good as I look, Mali looks even better.  She had her hair done professionally and a friend did her make-up, and she looked simply radiant.  Too bad she had to go to the ball with a dopey schmuck like me, but at least I cleaned up nice.

Now, from the pictures above you could be forgiven if you thought that were in any old place in the United States, so as proof that we did in fact attend the Marine Ball for Embassy Bangkok...

My sources tell me that the Asian Elvis is not Thai, but actually Filipino.  To bad we didn't get pictures of the Asian Johnny Cash and the Asian Tina Turner that were all there, all Filipinos, all singing their hearts out, and they were actually pretty good.  It wasn't necessarily the best music to dance to, but they were excellent performers.

Aside from the fact that we were sitting in Bangkok traffic for THREE HOURS waiting to get to the ball (thank goodness we were in the car with good friends and we actually had a lot of fun, despite sitting and not moving for long periods of times), and the fact that our food was not only an hour late getting to our table but I didn't get what I ordered (at least we ate before 1:30 AM), we had quite a fun evening talking and dancing.

Last weekend we weren't sure if we would go next year, but the further removed we are from the horrendous traffic and the late dinner and the long speeches, the more attractive it becomes to do it again.  Mali will get another stunning dress, and I'll use my tuxedo again.  And if we don't go, I can wear the tux for five weddings--provided I keep myself slim enough to fit into it over the next twenty years or so.

Excuse me, my wife is NOT Chinese

We've only been here for a month, and I already need two hands to count the number of times Thais have expressed their surprise that Mali is, in fact, not Chinese. I'm thinking of having a t-shirt made for her that says:

ขอโทษค่ะ ดิฉันไม่ใช่คนจีนค่ะ
[Translation: Excuse me, I am not Chinese]

This isn't the first time this has happened. Waaaaaaaaaaaay back in 1996, when Mali and I were newlyweds, we attended the Lao-Thai branch in Murray, Utah (the branch actually met in the building that I grew up going to, but that's another story for another time). My home teaching* companion was a retired Thai police officer who had moved to Utah so his children could attend American universities and interact with more members of the LDS Church. Anyway, one day as we were driving to a home teaching appointment, he said to me, totally out of the blue, "Your wife is Chinese, right?"
*Note for non-Mormons: "home teaching" is a program within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints where men in the church are paired up and asked to regularly visit the members of their congregation.

"No, she's Lao," I assured him.

"Right, she was born in Laos, but her parents, or her grandparents, they came from China, right?"

I responded in my horribly mangled half-Lao/half-Thai. "No, Mali is one-hundred percent pure Lao, through and through, right down to the pa dek (fermented fish sauce--it's a Lao thing) running through her veins."

To this day I don't think he was convinced. The fact remains, however, that Mali is, as best we can tell, 100% pure Lao. Her parents have provided me with all the genealogy they have in a written form, some of it going back as far as five generations, and all of those ancestors hail from what is today geographically, ethnically, linguistically, and any other "callys" you can think of, Lao.

If you have read this far, then you are probably wondering why it would be such a big deal, and I'll boil it down to one word.

Mangoes.

A couple of weeks ago Mali went to the open air market near our house with our neighbors. Our neighbors told us that their fourteen year-old daughter always gets better deals on the fresh produce than they get themselves, despite the fact that she speaks no Thai. In fact, she doesn't say anything when she goes to the market. It's probably at this point that I should mention that this girl is one-quarter Japanese, and you can tell that she has Asian genes. She looks easily as Asian than her mother, who is half-Japanese. The Thais absolutely adore the mixed-race look, so this works to her advantage.

Okay, so Mali goes to the market to watch our neighbor's daughter in action, and sure enough, she gets five mangoes for 100 baht. Okay, pretty simple. Mali steps up a few minutes later, and chats with the seller in Lao, there are some questions about Mali's origins ("Uh, are you Chinese?"), and then she sells Mali THREE mangoes for 100 baht.

Okay, maybe it boils down to two words.

Mangoes and bicycles.

One Saturday Mali went out to look for a bicycle for both her and the maid to use for errands that are just out of comfortable walking distance range (for them this means anything more than a five minute walk--I have a really skewed concept of what constitutes a "comfortable walking distance" so I should probably just be quiet about this). So she went to the local bike shop where some other people in our neighborhood said they sold decent bikes for really good prices. Again, the question is asked ("Uh, are you Chinese?") and after the vendor establishes that Mali is from the United States via Laos, the price of the bikes amazingly went higher.

Now let me be very clear: I am not accusing the Thais of being racist. I prefer to think of it as Thai business savvy. Because the price of just about everything is negotiable, you really can't blame them for trying to get the most money possible for their goods. And you have to understand that throughout Southeast Asia in general and Thailand in particular, the Chinese have a reputation for being, well... rich. Most Thais are very aware of who among them is of Chinese descent, and the corporate boards of most--if not all--large, successful Thai businesses are replete with Sino-Thais (as well as former generals and retired politicians).

Essentially, in my mind, it boils down to this: the Thais are looking to maximize their profits. That is entirely rational economic behavior (at least I think it is--it's been over 10 years since I took Econ 110), and in Mali they see a potential Chinese customer. While one might initially suspect her Lao identity might actually score her the local's discount, the fact that she's from America tends to actually hurt her even more, and right where it counts, too--the pocketbook.

The moral of the story? Let the maid do the food shopping. Now all we have to do is get her a bicycle.