Where's my baby? trashy women; illness diet; be nice

Joanna and the stroller are a safety net for me in Bien Hoa. Don't get me wrong; cars and motorbikes don't slow down for us when we cross a street, and we were nearly hit the other day by a girl ripping around a corner on her bike, motocross style. But people are clearly more receptive and friendly when they see me pushing a stroller that actually has a child inside. A group of men always sit in the park and drink coffee, and the other day they smiled and said hello as I walked by on my way to the market with Joanna. Joanna and I bumped into Phuong at the market, so Phuong took Joanna home on the motorbike -- yes, Phuong still rides sometimes. I pushed the stroller back home with no baby, and walked past the group of men. They looked for Joanna in the stroller. I pretended like I was shocked and asked: baby o dau? -- where's the baby? Just then, Phuong rode by with Joanna, and I pointed and said me (sounds like may-uh), which means mom. We all laughed. I guess you had to be there.

• • •

On two separate occasions while walking with Joanna, I saw two women approaching SUVs after spending quality time in a coffee shop or karaoke club. On both occasions, the women who were driving dropped a bunch of trash in the street -- surreptitiously -- just before getting into the car. You can't make this stuff up. Living here, I don't have to. I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again and again. Littering is a lifestyle here, and it's obnoxious. The Vietnamese I've talked to who are also offended by littering say it's going to take a few generations and more education to halt this practice. When I see a woman who's holding a small child give that child trash to throw in the street, then I think that a "few generations" may be optimistic.

• • •

I was quite ill for about 10 days with some sort of stomach virus.  The great thing about being sick with the stomach virus I had was that the pounds just melted off me. People who haven't seen me in a while tell me how good I look. I may feel like hell, but I sure look good. And really, that's what it's all about, isn't it? My private student Sam asked me if I gave birth to a boy or girl. Being thinner hasn't helped my tennis or tai chi, but I didn't get sick to improve either. In fact, my tennis got worse, if that's possible. I'm all better now and I'm sure as I put my weight back on my tennis will return to its marvelous mediocrity.

 • • •

I admire bold, frank assessments, except when they involve children. I do my best to avoid making comments about a child's weight or personal appearance. Twice in the past week, I've heard adults criticize children for being fat. And folks, these kids aren't fat, at least by the White Monkey's standards. Anyway, in one instance, a dad told me his year-old 11-daughter was too heavy while his daughter stood next to me. This dad is actually a good guy, and he didn't dwell on the subject, but his daughter was obviously upset by the comment. In the other instance, a woman who lives across the street from us told a neighbor's 12-year-old daughter that she needed to change her posture when she walked so she wouldn't look so fat. The woman who made this suggestion has an ass the size of a freight train, so I'd suggest she looks in the mirror before making any more suggestions related to weight.

• • •

Joanna continues to be an incredible source of joy in my rather mundane life. She's 26 months old now and her English vocabulary is really quite extensive. I guess it's her ability to recall things -- she can recite the alphabet, count higher than she'll let us know, and surprise us by pointing out "ROOSTER" and "BUTTERFLY'' on the walk. She says "BACK HOME" when we return home in a taxi from tennis. It goes on and on ... and I don't want to go on and on about her. But .... she speaks more Vietnamese these days as well, but never to her dad. I've read where toddlers and young children in families that speak two languages know who speaks what language and they respond accordingly. Amazing and truly wonderful. Enough said by me ... I'll let Joanna do the talking.

Sorry, folks; I ain't THAT John Millman; just ask Roger

Let's set the record straight. My name is John Millman and I play tennis, but I'm not THAT John Millman. I'm 63 years old and he's 29. I couldn't beat Roger Rabbit in tennis, let alone Roger Federer. Hell, I can't even beat my diminutive and beautiful wife, Phuong. I love tennis and I'm a fan of the 29-year-old John Millman of Australia because he's gritty, persistent, focused and incredibly devoted to his profession and conditioning. I'm sadly lacking those qualities -- personally and professionally -- and the results have been borne out in a mediocre life without any notable accomplishments, other than my five fantastic children. John Millman of Australia deserves the spotlight because he has persevered though serious injuries and countless Challenger Tour and less-prestigious tournaments in remote locations -- such as Ho Chi Minh City -- to reach the bright lights of the U.S. Open in New York. He seems like a real gentleman to me and I couldn't be happier for him. Actually, I shouldn't have the exact name as this other Millman. My last name should be spelled Milman -- with one l -- but the hospital misspelled my grandfather's name on his birth certificate, and it stuck. My great-grandfather Elijah Milman (note the one l) was something of a legend in Georgetown, Del., according to my dad, who was something of an exaggerator when it came to family. Anyway, Elijah supposedly could open a clam with his bare hands, and he had 11 children. He was a farmer, and didn't play tennis.
Me? I'm an English teacher and former journalist.  I can open a beer with one hand if I have a good opener and I have five children. I can only imagine the reaction of people around the world when they opened my blog looking for information on the Australian who defeated Federer and tested Novak Djokovic at the U.S. Open. Instead, they saw my puffy, wrinkled face, which is a far cry from the chiseled, good-looking Australian tennis professional they were expecting to see. Well, there's good news for me. My blog got more hits in one day -- from all over the world -- than it usually gets in a couple of weeks. Sorry, folks; the Internet can be a funny place -- not funny ha-ha, but funny as in peculiar.

* * *

I've been taking Joanna for long morning walks three to four times a week.  We have a structure to our walks more than a fixed route. We'll cruise around the park a couple of times as Joanna sits in her stroller. Then, I'll pick Trứng cá for Joanna, who leaves her stroller to join me and enjoy this delicious little berry, also known as a Jamaican cherry.  Joanna will eat as many as I pick. The fruit has countless health benefits, and we're the only ones eating them, so it's a good father-daughter activity. But, the Jamaican cherry tree grows next to an open sewer/canal at the park, so I don't stay as long as I would like. The tree is also next to a fairly busy street that has lots of fast-moving traffic, which results in lots of staring and a great deal of danger for my daughter. Cars, trucks and motorbikes in Bien Hoa don't slow down for little children any more than they slow down for the White Monkey, so I have to be constantly vigilant while I try to pick the Trứng cá. I don't take my eyes off Joanna for a second when we go out here, of course, and it makes what should be a relaxing experience a little tense. I think Joanna understands the perils of life on the outside here, but after all, she's only 26 months old. After Joanna gets her fill of berries, she stays out of the stroller and walks the length of the park with me.  We used to look at the fish in aquariums at a restaurant, but one of the managers yelled at Joanna for touching the outside of a tank. I gave him a death stare and now we very rarely go there. The Mickey Mouse mural nearby is covered in red ants, so it's an occasional, careful visit. Sometimes, we'll go along Vo Thi Sau street to shop at a local market.  Having Joanna with me seems to lighten the mood with most strangers, who smile and try to talk with her. She's wisely wary of strangers and hates being touched by them. I intervene before they can pinch her  cheeks, a local favorite. Other than the vehicles that don't care about a baby in a stroller, it's a very pleasant morning with my daughter.

* * *

 I'll circle back to tennis for a moment. Phuong was playing the match of her life against me on Thursday, taking a 3-1 lead with solid serving and incredible shot-making. I was playing well, but she was on fire. Then, Joanna came out on the court and we stopped play. Joanna refused to leave, and ran away from us when we tried to pick her up. Phuong finally corralled her, but when we returned to playing, Phuong had lost her mojo. We stopped with the score tied 4-4 and Joanna still running wild everywhere. I owe her. Joanna clearly saved me from a thumping at the hands of Phuong, and the No. 1 ranking in our family remains up in the air.

Silly, disruptive court behavior; laughing; mood music

Reading, tai chi, music and tennis are my passions these days.  Family is No. 1, of course, along with eating and sharing a beer every night with Phuong, but that's another story. I find that tennis usually helps my mind-set – I'm less frustrated about the heat and traffic, teens cursing at me (it happened again on Thursday), and staring ... and all the other stuff. The aforementioned seem less significant when I battle Phuong for tennis supremacy in our household. We compete hard despite the brutal heat, and we finish our tennis battles incredibly sweaty, tired, and satisfied, depending on who wins.  But as I've reported before, even tennis has its peccadilloes and imbroglios (always wanted to drop those words into my blog, even if they're not apropos in this case). The following craziness has happened during our tennis encounters in the short time since I've been back in Vietnam:
• Two drunks at the city courts who had been "playing" engaged in a titanic shouting match next to our court while we tried to play. The shouting lasted way too long and was way too loud. I added to the noise by screaming at them to shut up or go argue on the highway. The so-called managers of the courts finally asked the two Einsteins to leave.
• Some tennis "instructor" at the city courts next to us came over to our side and picked up our loose balls on the ground and started inspecting them about four feet behind Phuong while we played a match. I guess he was looking for errant balls his "student" had hit. I asked him what's up, and he said "You have six balls." So what? Anyway, we had seven balls so the White Monkey got pissed and told him off, politely of course, pointing out he didn't have any balls.
• At the court where the police offices and barracks are located, some cop who's a good player started flirting hard with Phuong during our match. And they're yakking back and forth about shoes, lessons, etc., while I'm about to serve. Guess what? I got pissed and told her to go talk with the a-hole or play.
• A little kid who was riding on the trash truck that came through the cop court parking lot got off the truck, stood by fence and shouted at me as I was about to serve. The third time this happened, I left the court and walked toward him. He did what most punks here and everywhere else do. He ran away and tried to hide behind the trash truck, where his father probably worked. The cops came running out and surrounded me like I was the criminal, which I was in their eyes.
• Some clown at the city courts cut across our court twice during our match. I tried to confront him, but Phuong says he can't hear. I'm not good enough to hit him in the ear with a ball, but I won't miss when I put racket up his butt the next time it happens. Actually, this guy does a lot of weird staring at us ... I'm thinking there's something not quite right with him.
• A teen working for the so-called managers started sweeping the area around our court with a big broom while were finishing a match -- 5-4, 40-30, or something like that. I stopped, put my hands on my hips and glared at the loser working for the other losers. He asked Phuong: "What's wrong with your husband? Why's he angry at me? I'm just doing my job?" This cleaning occurred 15 minutes before our time on the court was up.
Phuong and I were talking about all these shenanigans while we shared a beer the other night, and we just started laughing and couldn't stop. We started making up our own interruptions and the laughing continued. The only reason this stuff ticks me off is that we have to pay for court time, and the locals are real sticklers about money. We waste enough money when Joanna runs onto the court, about 12 times a session. I can become a stickler too if they want to play the money game. Like my sage friend Andy says, "I'm on a fixed income."

* * *

Speaking of laughter, Joanna started giggling about something last week and it became infectious. I started giggling, too, and then she started belly laughing, and I couldn't help myself and belly-laughed as well. It took us a while to get ourselves under control. I start laughing now when I think about the whole thing, and I can't remember what happened to get it all started. I'm an old fart, but having a child like Joanna keeps me young at heart, for sure.

* * *

Despite my fixed income, I've been buying lots of music as background for walking, tai chi, and reading. Some recent purchases: The Stone Roses, Atlas Sound, Lotus Plaza, Deerhunter, Drake, Youth Lagoon, Working for a Nuclear Free City. I certainly enjoy these artists, but I don't recommend any of it. Much of it is melodic and moody pop/rock, which suits my needs.