May 31, 2007- Dad knows best?

I recently received a massive package from my father, who I sometimes fear because of his sense of humor. While his jokes rank up there among my favorites, they can at times be borderline frightening. For the Christmas of my 20th year, I received from a family friend a set of stuffed teddy bears dressed in different holiday-themed sweaters. My dad, instead of allowing me to give them to a more age-appropriate recipient, insisted on keeping them. Occasionally, he asks me if I want them sent to wherever I am currently residing, which he gets a kick out of. For him, it is the joke that keeps on joking. ¨Lindsay, are you sure that you don´t want me to mail you at least 2 of the 5 teddy bears? They are awfully cute, after all.¨ So back to my initial point, I was sure that one of those pesky bears would find its way into the package he sent me, but maybe I successfully concealed them with all of the shit I stored at his apartment before coming down here, because my package was bearless. While lacking teddy bears, it did have some other interesting contents. My dad has a proclivity for sending me a mixture of things I love with random things he finds around his house. Items that fell into the second mentioned category this time around included a lone can of sardines, 2 expired pudding packs, some old black flip flops, and some miniature marmalades, all of which made me smile. Perhaps that can of sardines made you cringe? You maybe thought, ¨Ewww…sardines???¨ This, my friends, is where our true story begins…

All I think about is meat. If you want to play a fun game with yourself, try to guess what is running through my mind at any point during any given day. If you guess my family, friends, or work, you are wrong. If you guess meat, BINGO, you hit that nail right on its head. It´s fun. If you always guess meat, you will always be right, which sort of means you are a mind reader and that we are telepathically connected. Spellbinding, isn´t it? Speaking of meat and my lust and love for it, let us focus in for a second on the fact that I am served meat or another form of protein on average once a month, which has me a bit at my wit’s end. Don´t get too close, I´m not afraid of eating your flesh. Seriously. Here is a tidbit to illustrate how unbearable it has become. One of my closest friends Hana recently visited my region from her site west of mine, closer to the coast. She shared stories with me and Kristen about the wide range of insect visitors her room gets, including tarantulas and sizable scorpions. Instead of freaking out as the old Lindsay would, I sat there thinking, hmmm…tarantulas are large enough to qualify as animals. Maybe I could roast them over a fire and enjoy them over some pasta. Or, Im sorry, I forgot for a second where I was. I would actually enjoy them over rice. Silly me! Am I actually on Survivor? Will I win the cash if I start roasting tarantulas, because if so, that would be sweet!

Well, tonight after a dinner of hot water and dry flour (yes, they eat plain flour down here…don’t knock it until you´ve tried it. Just kidding, I won´t make you try it, as it tastes just like you would expect it to. What you must remember while eating it is that you can´t take too big of a bite or it will immediately suck all water out of your body, leaving you choking and gasping for air. Sweet treat, thanks for teaching me how to properly ingest it), I came to my room in a protein-seeking frenzy, ready to eat my wool blanket, which is as close to an animal as I could find. But wait! Did my dad NOT send me a pack of sardines? In a euphoric fit, I threw my entire packages contents (including Tastykakes, candy bars, and other such delectable goodies) aside to finally reach that flat shiny receptacle known as a sardine can. Reaching my fishy destination was more satisfying than Christmas, and in all of my excitement, I tore off the peel-off lid like I was opening my most awaited Christmas gift, which in case you were confused, is not a set of knit-sweater wearing teddy bears. What I forgot in opening the sardines is that their can was full to the brim of sardine-smelling fluid, not to mention sardines, all of which went flying all over the gosh darned place I call my room. Just when I thought my room couldn’t smell any worse from urinating at the base of my bed in a salad bowl, this calamity unfolds before me. Now, I’m sitting here trying to figure out if it is my room that smells, or just my hands from scooping sardines off my floor and shoveling them into my salivating mouth. All disasters aside, dad, you are a genius. Keep the protein coming, in whatever form you please.