Tag Archives: Peace Corps

One month in the life of a Craigslist Addict (jenn)

I realize it’s “so 2003” to be newly obsessed with Craigslist, but I since spent the last few years in Bulgaria, where there is no Craigslist (gasp!), it’s really become something I am quite taken by. Yes, I just said taken by. It’s a shame, since without the “in Bulgaria” part, my apartment would have been taken faster than you can say “Post Communist Hell.”

Two bedroom flat, two gorgeous balconies with wide mountain views, large kitchen and dining room, mold-free bathroom with flushing toilet, fully furnished and only a block away from outdoor markets, town center, town church, town park, town bank, etc.–$100/month.

Ryan and I pay 500 times that for an apartment 1/1000th as small in our new Seattle hood. (Math—not my forte.) But that’s the price you pay to live in a place you actually want to live, with such amenities as a ten-story library, Thai restaurants, and no Bulgaria. Resulting from the exorbitant rent we pay for the donut-shaped hobbit hole where we currently reside in the Central District, I have been fanatically utilizing the “Free” section of Craigslist in furnishing our new abode. Yes, I just said resulting from.

The first thing I learned about free stuff on Craigslist is that that everything besides no-legged tables goes fast. Much like a trader or someone who has to do things fast, I have had to be on the computer e-mailing and calling people as soon as their post came up. Otherwise, another Seattlite with faster fingers would be getting my new used futon.

My first successful acquisition was a large entertainment center and desk, all from an older man living in a mountain neighborhood where there were no non-white people on the street corners. Actually, there were no people. And in fact, no corners. We drove on a meandering road up the ridge, each house at the end of a long private driveway.

I wondered to whom you might give a dollar to fetch your runaway bitch mutt, as Ryan does with our neighborhood crackheads.

No matter.

While the furniture was kindly disassembled for convenient transport, it took me a month surrounded by an assortment of screws, nails, and oddly shaped wood pieces to get the entertainment center up and ready to entertain. Re-building the desk, however, is requiring skills that my Ivy League BA in Psychology has not afforded me. However, from the various pieces of nicely-finished black wood piled in our bedroom/office section of the donut, I think it will be a really nice desk once it is assembled, perhaps by someone STEVE WHITE who may perhaps be more handy with a screwdriver, of the tool variety.

In our new home, Ryan and I were sleeping side-by-side in our REI sleeping pods, which was fine and gave us a perpetual sense of adventure and transience, at least at bedtime. However, when I saw “Clean Down Comforter” on Craigslist one day, I knew I couldn’t say no. Who says no to a clean free down comforter? Not me friends, not me. We drove to a hip chick’s apartment, and when she told me her name, I knew she had to be Bulgarian, as there are only 3.5 names in Bulgaria for women. She was indeed from Bulgaria, and had learned English from Peace Corps Volunteers, so we sat around and reminisced about the great Bulgarian… yogurt. And beans. As we were about to leave she said, “Hey, do you guys want all my pots and pans too?” And this is how we came to possess the nicest pots and pans I have ever owned.

I knew I spent the best years of my twenties in Bulgaria for a reason.

Things really started to pick up when I managed to find us a brand-new looking Ikea kitchen table! We drove deep into Tacoma to pick it up, which made the owner of the table laugh at us, as if to say–you do realize the money you spent on gas cost more than this Ikea table. But to make it worth our while, and because Ryan is extremely affable and I make sure to tell everyone we don’t have anything because I was in THE PEACE CORPS, this charitable young couple decided to help us build our dreams using all the things they weren’t taking with them on their move to San Francisco. This included lamps, a bookshelf, a fancy coffee maker whose various contraptions we have not yet figured out nor have any intent to, and most importantly, approximately 5 lbs of raw spaghetti, a near-gallon of olive oil, and various canned goods, including Tomato Soup and garbanzo beans. From their food products, I extrapolated that in a parallel existence we all would have made great friends. We drove away from Tacoma ecstatic, feeling like we had won the lottery, but instead of a million dollars, we had a lifetime supply of spaghetti.

Some people have said, “Jenn, why don’t you use the time you spend on Craigslist Free looking for a job under Craigslist Jobs.” And I say, “That’s silly. Why would I want a job when I can have a free weight lifting bench?”

We’ve also acquired a comfy free futon and futon frame, small desk, decorative bureau, cozy orange-corduroy loveseat, TV, lamps galore, a printer, and free tickets to a Kermet Apio show!

Still on the free wish list are: dishes, a basketball, haircuts, bikes, a SLR, one or two MacBook Airs, and a movie option for my yet-unwritten first novel.

Since we did need some extra cash to supplement our non-income, we decided to sell our iPhone on Craigslist. In less than ten minutes I had about twenty offers, but oddly enough, the best offer was from someone willing to pay more than it was worth at a store. We couldn’t decide if he was really dumb or we were, but he came and paid us a stack of cash and sped off. Feeling the whole exchange was strange, I joked about how he was probably Vietnamese mafia and didn’t want to go to a store to just buy an iPhone like a normal non-mafia person. Later I Googled his name, and perhaps he has a very common Vietnamese name, such as the Vietnamese version of “Chris Wong” but his name was also the name of a Seattle Vietnamese drug ring leader!

I’m glad our iPhone may have found a safe home to be used for heroin smuggling.

I really do hate it when I am right. Especially when it involves Vietnamese Tony Soprano knowing where you live. And by you, I mean ME.

In a country where people can afford to put televisions, computers, couches, and the occasional unwanted second daughter out on the curb, I love this country’s enthusiasm for trying to re-home furnishings—all for nothing. It’s so un-American and so American all at the same time. Wow.

Some people read The Secret and put their dreams out to the universe, hoping to attract a Ferrari through the strong magnetic power of Ferrari-lust. I put my dreams out to Craigslist, hoping to get something for nothing, again and again.



Some park by our house, Seattle

Time: 11:40pm
Setting: In car outside public library, stealing free wireless
Mood: Brr

When someone says: you’re slacking on the blog, I like to take it as a compliment, as in, wow Hee, you are so gifted and dynamic, I wish you would blog every day!

Yes! Then I shall try to blog every day!

Then another someone might say: shiiit girl, I’m totally behind, your shit is just so fucking heavy, you and Ryan, it’s not like I can skim your words.

Yes! Then I shall not blog every day!

Occasionally a “friend” calls to catch up, and hypothetically asks about my Christmas. After I answer, said person says in shocked manner: you went to Amsterdam?!! Dumbass, I respond, don’t you read my motherfucking blog? I may feel very insulted because I think all my friends ought to be as interested in me as I am. If you had a blog, I could say, I would read it religiously. In other words, if you had a blog, it’d be really boring, and that’s why you don’t have one. Your comeback might be: at least I can afford a sailboat with my oodles of moola, and I might say, who the fuck says oodles of moola? You, friend, might say I would never say that–you, Hee, make other people sound like douchebags in your blog to make yourself look smarter, and I might ask, did it work?, and you’d concede: yes, good game.

I haven’t not been blogging because I resolved to never use the a-word again in my last entry, but because I’ve been trying to write pieces that will hopefully one day end up in MONEY, since all of you freeloaders read me for free. I didn’t get the ‘zines with homeless teens job at the YWCA–THANKS FOR NOTHING HARVARD–and every time I open the Sunday classifieds or browse Craigslist for hours, nothing sends my heart even slightly a’twitter. This world of employment is just not for me! I need to freelance. It’s the only job that has the word free in it, which subliminally is very satisfying. Right now, our life is perfect. Ryan and I wake up, write pieces that have cute orange end buoys bobbing on the horizon, scribble down parts of Big Pieces, compose absurd and brilliant songs, eat in, use Mati as an excuse to go to Marymoor dog park and laugh at dogs and their people, walk down to Chinatown, drive to the Seattle café of the day, park outside the library and use the free wireless, read our brains out, make fucking awesome videos using the simplest Mac software imaginable, and try to see how little money we can spend going out while having the best time ever.

Sample weekend, last:

Thursday Night—Chinatown karaoke with Big Will—definitely best time ever, but money was spent.


Friday Night—Ryan falls asleep at 7, mid-Breach, both of us sideways on our free loveseat made for one normal sized person. I spend the rest of the night making love to my computer screen, and by making love, I mean writing. A cheap date if I ever saw one!

Saturday Night—Dancing to 80s classics such as “Beat It,” with Ellen and Jordan at Buddha Bar. Ryan does a brilliant impromptu duet dance with an equally insane white woman of advanced age who was either a mom with a mission, the wife of a biker-man, or my fourth grade teacher. It was hard to pinpoint her personality based on her grand jetés. She grabs Ryan’s balls and gives him the come hither finger all night. Ryan tries to pretend he’s with me so she’ll stop groping him. Nice try, stranger.

Best time ever!!!

Sunday NightComedy Underground to watch Paul Ogata. We pretend we’re his crew and since we’re Asian the scenario is plausible and this gets us in for free. I laugh so hard I snort brain matter out of my nose. Best time ever!!!

In conclusion, we had three best nights ever for the price of one.

Reduce, Reuse, Reblog

I wrote the following piece in my old website/blog, but since way more new people read this blog, especially now that Ryan’s ass is heavily featured, I am re-posting it, mainly in the hopes that someone will send it to someone who will send it to someone, and it will become chain blog-mail. In a week it will come back to me, telling me I have to send it to 7 people in order to have my wish come true, which was to have this letter turn into chain mail, therefore it will have already become true, thus breaking the wish-cycle of chain letters. And somewhere out there will be that special person who opens me, a one-of-a-kind unbirthday present for all occasions, only to say: oh, she’s perfect! Here’s $100,000 a year to do just that!

P.S. I can be reached at: jennmeleana@mac.com

Cover Letter, My Ideal Job

Dear Future Employer:

(Which ideally would be me.)

Dear Self:

If I were to take all my experiences and mesh them into one occupational position–it would be to create an alternative treatment center for emotionally-disturbed private school-educated orphans of gypsy descent. There, I would teach them avant-garde writing in the form of stick figure portraiture, Surrealist photography in the form of aggressive napping, cardio kickboxing, imperfect veganism, and proper contraception implementation. I would treat them from their addictions to god, to family obligation, to morality as a washboard for our animal instincts, to guilt/blame, to ego, to refined sugars, to Myspace. This center would be in a former Communist nation where there would still only be two types of cheese–yellow and white. I’d recycle my diploma into toilet paper. Ivy League 2-ply.

The lesson of the day: degrees are for assholes.

Each morning, we would climb the metaphorical walls of our flimsy defenses before settling into our line-less Moleskins. Blank pages–we could go any way. After loosening the figure 8 knots of our old convictions, we’d rappel into philosophical caves, rooms of our own, walls padded with the insulation of our old bullshit, writing character sketches for our self of the day. At recess, we’d have a pep rally, cheering on our own genius ideas.

“G-E-N-I-U-S! Gooooo Genius!!!”

At lunch, we’d photograph trees, bury first drafts in self-destructing time capsules, invent ten new ways to eat pumpkin, stuff kaleidoscopes with fortune cookie fortunes, laugh at the distortions, the possibilities, laugh at our pasts which we’ve pulled from our mind like a loose shirt thread and re-woven into a quilt large enough to cover our cold feet. At night, we’d reclaim constellations, snip every imaginary line connecting memories to fear, expectation to fear, preservation to fear. Cassiopeia into The Persistence of Memory. The Big Dipper into Guernica. We’d praise the sky as a figment of our gorgeous imaginations. We’d be as endless as we wanted to be. We’d take our fears, write them on gold origami paper, folding each into 1,000 cranes, into one crane in the shape of a kite, and fly our fears past the point of control, and let them go, let them all go.

And then we’d be free for the first time in our lives.


I mean, c’mon already. I am awesome. Hire me.

My most productive hours are between the hours of 12 and 4 am, I need really good health insurance, a company car or bike would be SO COOL, can my dog come?, I cook a mean pumpkin bread, do I really have to be present physically every day?, I think having the option to work from a park or cafe or hey, my living room– would be fantastic, and gym membership as a corporate benefit, hey, I’ll take it!


In the meantime, enjoy our latest photos from the lovely Pacific Northwest!


oh, bulgaria. (jenn)

oh bulgaria orphanage, where a child essentially sucks his thumb off and the caretaker says, “he doesn’t seem sick to me.”

p.s. the video is an hour and a half… and heavy. even though the sally struthers-esque reporter is annoying, there is so much about this that is all too familiar–the completely fucked up director (POOL UMBRELLAS?!??) who should be locked up, rather than, you know, put in charge of caring for children; the mostly unsupervised and totally unstimulated kids, locked in at night, neglected past the bare minimum of physical needs; the tendency for staff to not see these institutionalized kids as living breathing feeling beings; the kids who would not be so fucked up if they were given proper treatment, therapies, etc… yadda yadda yadda. obviously the BBC is trying to tug on your compassion-for-vulnerable-children heart strings, but they don’t have to try too hard in this example.

i feel sorry for all children.

I’ll Never Be Such a Fucking Amazing Person in My Life Again. (jenn)

Hi Comrades.

I realized that this time last year I was still in Bulgaria. Still Peace Corpsing my life away. Last year’s holiday season theme wasn’t Mr. Jesus Christ, or Macy’s elves, or even blue tinsel. Last year’s theme was hypothermia pie. Hypothermia pie involved Matilda and I spooning in deep hibernation in my bedroom, praying. Praying to the gods of cheap space heaters to keep heat alive, and to the pipe gods to defrost and let water flow. I sang “O Come All Ye Electrical Current” to the electricity gods, because the only thing I hated more than coldness was when coldness and darkness joined powers and formed Early Death.

I really hated Early Death.

To commemorate the fact that I haven’t even been back in the motherland a year, I’ve been revisiting my old Bulgaria writings. I have to say I enjoy the bitter Amerikanka I once was. Now I’m weak. Now I love. Easy access to soy products makes a person soft. SOFT LIKE SILKEN TOFU I TELL YOU!

I need to find an Eastern European market here and see if I can get someone to verbally abuse me for simply existing.

Bulgaria, circa 2006:

I’ll never be such a fucking amazing person in my life again

It amuses me how my life and work are interpreted–how my being here implies I have no direction, or that I am sacrificing something for the work I do. The longer I’m here, the more my life resembles anyone’s life: I walk my dog. I run and go to the gym. I clean my apartment with Mr. Clean. I sit at my desk 5,000 hours a day. The other 5,000 hours a day I spend running around with kids, teaching, mentoring, and buying the orphans pads. I cook dinner for my friends. I drink tea on my balcony and read Newsweek. I go to the farmer’s market. I take my Banana Republic turtlenecks to the dry cleaner. The only real difference between my job and your job is that I make 89 cents an hour. And that’s relative too—89 cents is exponentially more than what my colleagues make. I live alone in a huge apartment, have a cell phone, Internet, and six different pairs of athletic shoes (day hiking, kickboxing, trail running, running, marathon running, hardcore hiking). It’s very American to look at my life and ask me when I’ll get a real job. My job is as real a job as I’ve ever had. I consider myself lucky to have the opportunities I have here. Last year alone I went to Greece, Hungary, Turkey, (and Tahoe!). I create my own schedule, and have to answer to no one besides the extremely sadistic control freak-masochistic-perfectionist voice in my own head. I live in a country where the national IQ average is 89. I’m like fucking Einstein. People are mesmerized by my ability to type “without looking” and with more than one finger. The fact that I don’t have a television by choice, and that I read “for fun” makes me enigmatic, dare I say monk-like. The fact that I don’t smoke is downright revolutionary. I’ll never be such a fucking amazing person in my life again.

And I Thought Buying Tampons in America Was Awkward

Part of my “work” (for 89 cents an hour) with the orphans involves me going to pharmacies and purchasing their hygienic products. Yes, I am their pad bitch. I’m glad I went to Harvard to be the pad bitch of 10 adolescent female orphans. Let is be known that in Bulgaria, you have to ask a pharmacist for everything—every berry flavored cough drop, herbal tea, and heavy flow pack of Always sits on shelves behind a counter. You have to ask for these items in front of everyone else in line at the pharmacy. You have to ask when there are orphans standing right next to you, who speak just perfect Bulgarian, but who are too ashamed to ask themselves, and I suspect take secret pleasure in watching me trying to fumble my way through conversation at each pharmacist’s counter.

Here’s a little example:

Me: “Good day.”

Old Pharmacy Man: “Good day.”

Old Pharmacy Man: “Tell me what you need.”

Me: “Something for the business of women.”

Old Pharmacy Man: “What do you mean, pray tell?”

Me: “Something needed for the month cycle of a woman.”

Old Pharmacy Man: “Oh. Here you go.” [Gives me something resembling ibuprofen.]

Me: “No no! The woman is not sick. It is not sick or pain. For blood. No sick sick. Blood.”

Old Pharmacy Man: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Me [Now bright red, everyone in pharmacy staring. Turns to orphans.]: “You little shitheads know I don’t know the word for the blood things! Fucking help a sister out! You think it’s in my goddamn job description to buy you Always? Fuck that. I’m out.”

[End trip down Bulgaria Lane.]

It’s paragraphs such as these that make it hard for me to edit my Bulgarian experience into publishable travel essays. I am still trying to do this, but I hate the writer I become. I hate 97% of most Peace Corps writery writing that I read, because it’s too pretty, too florid, too edited away from the truth. Too neat. All Peace Corps Volunteers are selfish assholes, just like every human being. I hate that they think they’re not selfish assholes. I hate superficial closures, poetic conclusions to experiences that are anything but neat. I hate feeling as though I have to wax romantic and use phrases like “human folly” in describing my 2.5 years served in the so-called cushiest of all Peace Corps countries. (But remember–the sanity to comfort exchange rate was high. HIGH. Although it’s probably all too easy from my flooded Seattle cave-home to say I would have gladly exchanged my high-speed Internet and bitter nation for a mud hut and happy nation.)

(I’m a selfish asshole.)

Now that I’ve been in America almost a year, I feel as though I have to be more PC and not make negative commentary about Bulgaria. When I was there I felt no such guilt, as there is no such thing as PC in Bulgaria, which is actually one of the things I miss. YES. I do miss Bulgaria. More now that it’s harder for me to just pick up the phone and shoot the shit without someone saying, “Wow. Your Bulgarian is really bad already.”

“I understood THAT!” –Me

“What?” -Them

Most of all I miss Yulia, my BBBFF (Best Bulgarian Friend Forever). She saved me over and over. I miss the Mihailovi and the Peichinovi families that adopted me as their Roma-Hawaiian and Bulgarian-Hawaiian daughter, respectively.

I miss wandering with Mati in the empty hills, letting her run free and only having to worry about what she’d do with a horse carcass, and not what might happen should she she run into a prissy American purebred. And her dog.

(Mati’s developed a real attitude towards American dogs. She’ll try to bite out the eyeballs of the world’s friendliest golden, should the world’s friendliest golden cross her path.)

(Oh, I’m exaggerating future Pet Sitter! Be not afraid! Mati’s a lover, not a vicious murderer.)

I miss my pimp ass palace of an apartment that cost $140 a month, which was a rip off, because I was American. The apartment really should have cost approximately $10 a month, because it was in Dupnitza.

I miss not having to think about car insurance, health insurance, mental dog insurance—all the paranoia that makes America feel safe.

I kind of miss lutenitza, tarator, tikvenik, and mish mash.

A toast: To my favorite lutentiza. Mmm.

The following is intended for specific audiences only:

For all my beloved RPCVs:



Can I just say that our former forced friend has the phattest house ever? How does SCOTT become a homeowner? Of a house with a man-cave larger than our entire apartment? With the coolest, non-wifiest wife ever and most lovable chocolate lab bitch ever?

Maybe Scott will hire me as his live-in dog nanny.

For all my fellow Iolani No Ka Oiers:



She lives! In Seattle! She is awesome! She has the pimpest apartment ever and her super-rad BF, Jordan, makes the best salmon and broccoli EVER.


So far, the Seattle theme has been: Using Superlatives and CAPITALIZATION to re-claim the “Showing and not telling” writing maxim. I SHOW and I tell. And poorly.

There’s something refreshing about being SO excited to reconnect with old friends–seeing how much their everything has changed since you were band geeks or volunteers in post-Communist Hellistan together. I love being welcomed into the warmth of their New Lives, with too much wine and foggy conversation. I love it. I love it as much as going away to another country, knowing no one and nothing, being charmed by the three-legged stray dogs and markets where everything is sold by kilos and you are really not even sure if kilo refers to weight or flesh trading.

Tomorrow I have my first job interview in at least four years. Awww yea! I am super excited—the gig is to make ‘zines with homeless teens! Everyone knows my two favorite things in life are maximizing creativity and totally messed up kids.

Wish me luck by praying to the god of employment where I’ll earn less than Ryan’s unemployment!

My New Favorites

New Favorite Movie: Did I write about The Lives of Others and how it was the best fucking movie ever? The main actor is Kevin Spacey, Ben Kingsley, Dr. Spock, Anthony Hopkins, Bob Hoskins, and the father from Garden State all in one man! It’s crazy. Just so you know, it’s in Nemski, which means German in Bulgarian. Thanks Ryan’s dad!

New Favorite Book: Chuck Palahniuk’s Lullaby. I read it down in one, without the intermittent distraction of reality. Disturbing shit–not for the faint of mind. Thanks library of Harmonie and Chad!

My Favorite Album: Juana Molina’s Son. I’m too lazy to describe it now that WordPress lost my fucking blog that I saved 100 times and I had to re-do it with 1/2 the passion and twice the cussing. Anyway… for Juana Molina–Thanks SCOTT!

My Favorite Photo of the Day:


We’re sleeping on the floor since our bedroom was flooded out and mattress is soaked through. We can’t complain. 51% of the world has it worse.

Favorite Last Conversation for Wednesday Night:

Ryan: My stomach hurts.

Jenn: That’s ’cause you just ate a bag of chili cheese Fritos, a giant Peanut Butter Cookie, and 1/2 a box of generic cereal.

Ryan: You’re supposed to save me from myself!

My boyfriend is adorable.

9 days til Amsterdam!!!

Love in the form of a quiet smile,

jenn hee hits the road with that asian guy (jenn)


hi friends!!!

who wants to buy me a macbook?

see–the problem with trying to do a joint writing project with your boyfriend on his laptop is that you have to use legal pads that, while vaguely romantic and retro-cool, slow me down when i’m trying to pen my life for the masses. also, i donated my laptop to an NGO for the futherment of gypsies in bulgaria. that’s something. therefore, i feel someone whose wallet runneth over should just buy me a macbook in exchange for my writing. i give, you give.

i also want a digital SLR.

and, um, a job?

hm. while i’m at it, clear skin, ani difranco’s canon, an IUD, and new climbing shoes.

actually, all i really need is a job, and then i suppose i could GET all of the above wish list items for myself. unfortunately all i really want to do is exactly what i’m doing, which is wander and write with my bitch mutt and ryan.

yesterday was super bonus awesome rad because i saw that jason genegabus blogged about us for the honolulu star bulletin! the timing couldn’t have been better, because we spent half the drive from cleveland to milwaukee brainstorming ways we could get people interested in our writing–one idea being that i write a column for the star bulletin. the other half of the drive we spent worrying if this road trip and blog are even the best ways to be directing our time, limited funds, and energy. fortunately, we love the whole process of this site–we love writing, love making you tube videos, and love taking 500 photos of the sky from inside the car. so you can imagine how fucking awesome it felt to have jason write that not only were we interesting, but that we could write too! yeaaaaa! it’s like we gave birth to a little baby and jason was the first person to say it was cute, as opposed to boring and nondescript. so thanks jason! may our baby reach puberty unscathed!


ryan may have his road trip hair, which is growing to einsteinian proportions, but i have my road trip mustache, which ryan insists is imaginary. still, i would really prefer a waxing. i actually never waxed my upper lip my entire life until i moved to bulgaria and some woman told me it was extremely ugly, my mustache. actually, she might have said, “you need to eat more cheese.” at any rate, i am easily traumatized by commentary on my physical imperfections and amnesiac when it comes to praise. i mold my self-image out of every shitty thing anyone (of the ex-boyfriend genre) has ever said to me.

“rugged arms.” – ex-high school boyfriend
“diagnosis man legs.” – ex-doctor boyfriend
“too much ass, your honor.”– hypothetical ex-lawyer boyfriend

i forget what i was saying.

oh yea–road trip mustache. so ever since bulgaria i’ve waxed la moustache (sounds sexier in french), which has always ended up with me getting a painful and unsightly scabby burn streaking across my upper lip because i have sensitive skin and use various medications. it makes no sense that i choose the scarface look over peach fuzz.

at least the burn says: i’m trying.

i like to use up my brain space on worthless things like road trip mustache to distract myself about things i ought to be worrying about, like impending poverty. or whatever.

(i have other stories involving bulgaria and waxings-gone-mortifying, but i am trying to keep this blog family-friendly.)

so far i love milwaukee. there is something charming about a city with a disproportionate amount of billboards advertising McRib sandwiches. or maybe it’s just that i love harmonie and chad, and so does ryan, who is not so secretly obsessed with them being awesome. for example, today harmonie scheduled us ayurvedic massages at the kanyakumari center where she works. ah yes, as hot oil was being rubbed into my head to the sounds of indian chanting, all i could think was, “i want to rough it until i die.”