Nice legs; what's your name? tattoo stigma; Joanna's fish

Two girls in very short skirts displaying tattoos on their upper thighs, which I find distasteful, were leaving the coffee shop I frequent just as I was arriving with Joanna. The girls, in their mid-20s, looked at me and then looked at each other, with one girl saying to the other in a very provocative manner: "What's your name?" It was for my benefit, of course, so I responded with that local conversational classic, also in a very provocative manner: "Where you from?" We didn't get to the intimate "How old you?" and "How much?" because I wanted a cappuccino and, like I said, I had Joanna with me. Oh yeah, and I'm married.
I've mentioned this before. Tattoos carry heavy significance in Vietnam. Women that have them often work in the "business" and men that have them are labeled "gangsters." My Vietnamese isn't good enough to know for sure if this is or isn't the case. I still don't believe it, but this country reminds me of the U.S. in the 1950s in a lot of ways. The stigma of tattoos, for example.
Many of the girls and women here wear very short skirts (now we're in the U.S. in the 1960s), but feign modesty when you look at their legs, which usually are very nice. The girls will try to tug their skirts lower -- good luck with that  -- when they think they're being stared at. If their skirts or shorts are simply too short to tug, so to speak, sometimes they'll put jackets over their legs. Bummer. They want to put their best features out there, but they don't want to look cheap in the process. Good luck with that. My wife, like most women here, has very nice legs. But she calls herself a "classical" person and wears longer shorts or pants. At tennis, occasionally she'll wear shorter gym shorts, and I notice a lot of the men who play soccer next door come over to watch us. I don't think they want to see my titillating forehand or sexy serve when they press their faces to the chain-link fence, although my forehand is titillating at times, and my serve is clearly sexy.

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My daughter Joanna seems to be doing well enough. Everything is in English so far. She counts (to 19 without the 5 or 12), says the ABCs (with a few gaps here and there) and parrots much of what I say, which means I have to be more careful of what I say. The White Monkey will drop the occasional F-bomb, for example when I hit my head on low cabinets, spill water from the tiny sinks, don't have hot water, don't have electric, don't have coffee, wake up in the morning, go to bed at night ... you get the idea.
Joanna loves to finish words in stories: "Cat in the HAT!" She doesn't scream HAT! but she says it with pride and gusto. "The realm of magic BEASTS!" Some of the finishing words she says are multi-syllabic and I'm surprised when she says them. Her new trick is to do something bad, then preemptively say "no no no no no."
My daughter Joanna embodies the characteristics of so many people in my family. She looks like my mom and has my mom's expressions and determination; she possesses one of my daughter's fiery spirit and quick smile; my other daughter's kind and caring nature; my one son's intellect and wise judgment; my other son's likeable personality and good heart. She has Phuong's overall goodness, smartness and beauty. She has my family's and Phuong's family's stubbornness.  She has my height and size, and my temper. Uh-oh. She's become mommy's girl and doesn't care for dad, like all of my children. But I'm so proud of these kids and I hope and pray that Joanna becomes successful, smart and wise, like her half-brothers and sisters.

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We got Joanna a fish tank with 10 tiny fish -- she counts them quite often -- and a soccer ball. These are birthday presents ahead of her second birthday. She'll turn 2 in July. Time does fly, especially when you enjoy life ... and get older.

Disposing of toilet paper; nouveau riche; lousy pharmacy

In much of the world, notably Vietnam in this instance, used toilet paper is not disposed of in the toilet. Instead, it is placed in a trash can next to the toilet. The White Monkey was not raised this way. If the trash can doesn't have a lid, the sanitation and smell are not up to code -- my personal code. I generally won't use those facilities, unless I've eaten Vietnamese food and it's an emergency. Some public restrooms basically have a hole in the ground -- no seat. That's it. Oh, and they have a trash can next to the hole for the toilet paper, but usually there's no paper. I've been told, and I've read on the Internet, that the plumbing pipes in Asian countries are too thin to handle excessive toilet paper. Makes sense. Many bathrooms don't have toilet paper, but they have a small hose next to the toilet. Use your imagination. Actually, it's amazing what you can adjust to when you're 63 and your personal plumbing has issues of its own. Really, I'm OK with all of it except the hole in the ground. Motorbike accidents have diminished my flexibility, so I really prefer sitting on a seat to squatting over a hole. I can do it, but the discomfort distracts from the business at hand. In the White Monkey's world,  I prefer flushing used toilet paper down the toilet rather than having it sit in a trash can in 100-degree weather all afternoon. I also prefer toilet paper to a hose and my hand. But at the end of the day (the most overused cliche in the world today), my preferences overseas don't mean sh#t.

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Having been poor is no shame, but being ashamed of it is.
--  Ben Franklin
Many people who have recently come into money -- I think they're called the nouveau riche -- carry themselves with an arrogance that is unsavory at best, and cruel and vicious at worst.
 I've seen it in the United States, Peru, and now Vietnam. I wasn't in Poland long enough to witness it there, but I'm sure it existed. Maybe I resent these folks because I'm not rich -- but I know I resent their attitude more than anything else.
In Peru and Vietnam, these people park their SUVs anywhere they damn well please, talk loudly on their cell phones in elevators and restaurants, and walk across your tennis court while you're playing (more in Vietnam than anywhere else I've been).
I'm writing about this  because the economy is growing in Vietnam, there are more SUVs on the road, and really because some guy parked his expensive SUV in the park where we walk. The security guard asked him to move, and the guy said he was a cop, refused, and dared the security guard to call the cops. Some clown races his black SUV up and down our street every morning. At the coffee shop where I read, all the Richie Riches come out on Sunday. They'll grab chairs next to me without asking if it's taken. Sorry Phuong and Joanna -- it's called entitlement. They'll chat in the aisles, with or without cell phones -- and show no inclination of moving if you're trying to pass by.  I stood in line to get my cappuccino when a well-dressed guy came in, walked past me and blurted out his order to the girl behind the counter.  Line cutting is an art form for these folks. So I'll leave you with one more Ben Franklin quote about folks like this:
He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.

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A young neighbor of ours died,  which I thought meant three days of loud singing and "music" outside of our house. It didn't happen. The mourning period was respectful, and the music minimal.The young neighbor was 39 and died from a stroke. He leaves behind a young wife and two children under the age of  four. He was a nice man and always smiled when I walked past his house with Joanna. Joanna would wave, the man would smile, and all seemed good. It's a sad situation now.

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There's a big pharmacy on Vo Thi Sau street that I stopped going to because the girls who work there are weird, rude and just plain stupid. I asked for Band-Aids or adhesive bandages of some sort (the words were written on a piece of  paper in Vietnamese for these morons) and the girls laughed and shook their hands at me, signifying God knows what.  I showed them an adhesive bandage (Band-Aid is a trade name) on my finger and their dim lights flickered. They brought me a single adhesive bandage. I communicated that I needed more (remember, I shower four times a day now), and the girl rolled her eyes at me and brought me another single bandage. I went to another pharmacy where my needs were met hassle-free. I got a box of real Band-Aids with no hand shaking or eye rolling. And I'm sure no English was spoken at that pharmacy as well. I was walking past the big pharmacy on Vo Thi Sau a few days ago when an American approached me for help. He was in pain -- his neck was sore from a long plane trip. I went to the window with the man, pointed to his neck and said "pain"  and "need help" in Vietnamese. The two girls (it takes two girls to not understand and not help you) laughed hysterically. I guess they were laughing at my Vietnamese. The guy who needed help was clearly in pain. One girl laughed so hard she squatted down -- if there was a hole in the ground she could have peed -- and nearly fell over backward. The American was baffled. I wasn't. Those bags of douche have laughed at me a couple of times in the past when I've needed medicine. They hassled my mother-in-law as well. They need a prescription for their poor manners.

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Public grooming is fairly common here and I see lots of women primping each other's hair at restaurants, in stores and in the street. I don't know exactly what they're doing. It looks like they're searching for lice. Not sure this is the most sanitary practice, especially in supermarkets and restaurants. I won't go into nail clipping and nose picking. Oops, too late.

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I'm picking up more private students, almost more than I can handle. Free time is gone, but I still make time to read. Currently finishing Anne of Green Gables. It's supposed to be a children's book, but I find myself enjoying the heck out of it. A wonderful story fit for all ages.