Phuck It

Phuket – pronounced ‘poo-kay’
Saw a man drown in the sea off the coast Nai Harn beach this weekend. It was very disturbing with no sense of urgency. A drunken Thai kid got caught in the rip tide and while it took four guys to find his body that was submerged for a good 20-30 minutes, when they got him to shore there was no ambulance, no resuscitation efforts, nobody with this boy who cared that he died. Instead, each holding one of his limp limbs, they threw him in the back of a tsunami rescue SUV.

So the first day in Phuket, we relaxed at the pool, had lunch on the beach watching the kite surfers, played a little tennis and had an $8 Thai massage, which felt more like a power yoga class. The woman contorted my body into formations I never though possible. That evening we rented a scooter and drove an hour at dusk to Patong Beach to walk the streets of sex shows, man ladies, old, perverted men and drunk Aussies.

The second day we took the scooter all over the island, visiting beaches and marinas along the way and window-shopped the knock-off designer stalls.

The third day we thought we would bike the National Park preserve, but we only got about 2 km before the monsoon downpour. We took cover in an abandoned restaurant for an hour with a Thai family. When the heavy rain subsided, we rode through the wet streets back to the Indigo Pearl for a day of sports. First I got another pretzel massage, then Raphael and I played some ping pong, followed by Mui Thai boxing, billiards while watching the Berlin marathon, the gym and then an evening of watching the Formula 1 race in Singapore.

Raphael is very competitive and a black belt in karate. He was not impressed with my boxing skills and was rather annoyed that I would not do exactly as he, the master, says. He showed no mercy in beating me up and then he punched me in the nose and knocked the wind out of me, telling me I did not move fast enough. I have finally met my match. He is stronger, faster, smarter, more anal (yes, even more anal than Carl and I put together!) and I am finding it difficult to keep up.

Cohabitation can teach you a lot about someone. My new roommate follows me around with a vacuum to get those blonde hairs and cookie crumbs sucked up, does the laundry EVERY day, irons his socks, underwear and Tshirts, AND has four closets organized like a Banana Republic….10 white shirts, 10 blue shirts, 10 blue shirts with stripes, 10 dark blue shirts, 10 dark blue shirts with stripes, 10 pairs of khakis, 10 Armani suits, 3 black and 3 brown pairs of Pradas, Italian gym shoes that cost $300 and look like what grandpa wore in 1985, a collection of D&G leather belts, 10 watches ranging from $5K-$25K ea in a humidity-controlled chamber, and countless other European designer fashions of whom I can not pronounce or spell the names.

Kelly Raw – TMI (too much information, as usual)
Most of you know that I can be very vulgar in speaking of bodily functions, so if you are a bit prudish or do not wish to hear about my personal issues, stop reading now. NOW I SAY! I have already shared my diaper rash problem from biking long distances in sweaty spandex. Combine that with a Brazilian (the people in the next room must have thought I was suffering from Tourettes syndrome when I had it), not seeing your boyfriend for 3 weeks, being dehydrated for three days after a 200km ride in the Orient, you have the perfect storm for a fungal infection.

Now granted I pride myself for getting to be 37 years old without suffering from a yeast infection, I still am not keen on going to see a doctor, especially in Thailand. Instead, I consulted Google for symptoms, prescriptions and home remedies. Since it is difficult to find Monistat 7 in the 7-Elevens of Thailand, I raided the yogurt from the hotel breakfast bar. Most of the websites recommend yogurt as the cure all for yeast infections and can offer handy tips on how to get it up there. I was not about to make yogurt popsicles to stick up my couchie.

Now all was good until after I got rained on during the ride and went straight for a Thai massage. Usually I wear my undies during massages, but I did not wear any with my spandex, which was now soaked from the rain. Therefore, I was getting my contortionist massage in the buff. All was fine until the little Thai woman started walking all over my back, putting pressure on my stomach and, of course, squeezing the yogurt out. Now the masseuse must of though that whitey wide-eyes was either really excited by the massage, or she is suffering from some really bad STD. On Seinfeld, you might get that from riding the tractor with no undies....