Not All Kilos Are Created Equal

We arrived in Ho Chi Minh (the former Saigon) late Monday afternoon. The plane ride was uneventful except for two things.

First, the cost of the ticket was cheap but the baggage fees were nothing short of extortion. Vietnam Airlines allows 20kg in baggage per person.

Period.

You could check 10 bags weighing two kilos each and that would be fine but if you go over so much as a gram, the baggage police come out and demand your arm, the keys to your SUV, your first born and GOBS of American dollars.

To put this into perspective, 20 kilos equates to about 44lbs. My suitcase was originally packed for the 17 days of this trip and I've shopped a bit. My bag clocked in at 24 kilos, which would be pretty close to American guidelines. My client, on the other hand, has already had to acquire an extra bag for her purchases, which is completely understandable because it is her first time in Asia and she has lots of disposable income. Between her two bags, she weighed in at a whopping 61 kilos. Bottom line was that we were about 25 kilos over the weight limit. In the US, this would have cost us roughly $40 each. Vietnam Airlines expected $260.

I had myself a little hissy fit right there at the counter, demanding to speak with the supervisor, who patiently explained that this was the policy and that basically, I could just go pound sand. I told him that his fees were unreasonable. He smiled, agreed and then asked if I would be paying with cash or credit card. Clearly, I was not the first loud and obnoxious American to cause a fuss at the "Excess Baggage" counter.

So, out came the American Express and everyone exhaled.

While waiting to board our plane, we decided to have a bite to eat which turned out to be all kinds of stupid. I had a little curried something that caused a mini war between my stomach and my bowel. I have never wanted a Tums so badly in all my life.

On the plane, my client and I were lucky enough to have a row of seats to ourselves.

And the stinky foot of the person in the seat behind us.


















I mean, c'mon. It wasn't just a toe up there on the armrest. It was half of a very stinky foot. We swatted at it with a newspaper. We slugged it with our purses, to no avail. Smelly foot remained. We turned around and gave the death stare but still, there was no retreat. "Pinch it," I suggested. My client declined. We gave up. Finally, after take off, the flight attendant came by and since neither of us knew how to say, "Oh my God, this person hasn't washed their feet in years and we're about to vomit from the fumes," in Vietnamese, we pinched our noses, screwed up our faces and pointed at the offending appendage. That did the trick. The sock disappeared.

The rest of the flight was largely uneventful except for the karaoke singing from the person with the stinky foot and my visit to the toilet, which has caused me to wake up in the middle of the night screaming for my mother. Oh the horror.

I can't say that I recommend Vietnam Airlines.

But Vietnam, the country, is spectacular. More on that tomorrow.

Budda is Worth the Vertigo

Since the birth of my daughter, I have not been the same person. I'm not talking about spreading hips or postpartum blues although I could write volumes on both subjects. I'm referring to my newly acquired aversion to heights.

It's a weird deal.
I used to love roller coasters and carnival rides. I have very vivid memories of going to Canada's Wonderland and spending the entire day defying gravity in one form or another. Now? Not so much. My brain starts to churn with the "what ifs". What if the coaster flies off the tracks and we all plunge to our death? What if I fall out?

I realize that these are not rational thoughts but I can't help it. I watched a program recently about the lookout platform at the Sears Tower in Chicago (I know it is now called something else but I refuse to acknowledge) and felt sick to my stomach as the camera took us right out onto the ledge.

I get dizzy to the point of vertigo when I look down from more than a couple of feet in the air. Last year, we went to the Indy 500. Our seats were right across from the start/finish line, at the very top and only accessible via a set of iron stairs with open railings on the exterior of the building. It was a miserable experience climbing those steps. I kept having uncontrollable visions of Olivia slipping through one of the rails and it took forever to get to the top. I was queasy and desperately uncomfortable.

Yesterday, I took my client to the Tian Tan Budda on Lantau Island.

By way of cable car.

I've done this before and it is not a big deal as long as the wind is calm and I refrain from looking down. It's actually been a pleasant experience. Exhilarating, even. Yesterday was a bit of a different story. My colleague in Hong Kong, in an effort to give us a more unique experience, arranged for us to ride up to the Budda in one of the "Crystal Cabins". I had no idea what this was since it had never been an available option in any one of the five times I've been there in the past.
This was the view from inside our fabulous crystal cabin.
Sickening.
The entire bottom of the cable car was Plexiglas or something similar. Below my feet is the Pacific Ocean. To say that the ride made me woozy is an understatement. I've never been so glad to get off anything in my entire life. And yes, I know that I have Fred Flinstone feet so no need to point that out.

Anyway, I recovered from the ride and mostly enjoyed my time at the Budda. There were lots of changes up there and I can't say that I'm happy about most of them. There is something regretful about the commercialization of a place that was once so charming in its simplicity. I understand the need to cater to the tourist but part of me deeply resents the presence of a new Starbucks and a host of tacky souvenir shops where a grove of rubber trees used to grow. They call it progress. To me, it's just sad.

With that said, it was still pretty cool to get up close and personal with the Budda.
And those stairs...
And sometimes, there are views that remain as sublime as the first time they are seen.

Back in Hong Kong

Hi kids.

I'm in Hong Kong.

But for the last several days, I was in mainland China and they don't let me blog there anymore. It's not because I'm a political dissident or a rabble rouser or a bad egg. I'm not on any Chinese government watch list or anything. It's just that the powers that be have decided that they don't want their masses to partake of any non state-controlled social media like Blogger, Facebook or Twitter. And listen, I know the whole "when in China..." thing but I have to admit that being blocked from accessing these sites got my panties in a bunch.

It also made me especially appreciative of where I live.

Anyhoo...

I'm going to have to run. I'm sorry. I am headed over to Shenzhen, which is close to Hong Kong, relatively speaking, but still requires yet another pass through Chinese customs. My client and I will be spending the day at a factory over there. I'll try to get some pics up tonight from the last couple of days.

More later..

Litterbox Nightmares Part Deux

Okay.

I am going to try to write this post without using profane language.

This will be difficult because I'm going to tell you about our weekend and the freaking Cat Genie.

To summarize the entire ordeal, let me just say that:

a) I am an idiot.
b) My cat is no dummy.
c) Shit happens.

We received the magical new litter box early last week and my lovely husband, who indulges my every whim, patiently spent the better part of two hours putting the damn thing together and hooking it into our laundry room plumbing. His dad would have been proud of him.

He got it assembled and turned it on a wash cycle, which is supposed to begin the process of cat acclimation, which, let me tell you, is a figment of some pet behaviourist's imagination. We don't train cats. They tolerate us. A friend of mine says that we shouldn't kid ourselves. If cats were bigger, they'd just eat us rather than put up with our crap. I believe that.

Anyway, the Cat Genie's operation can only be described as deafening, like AC/DC-concert-right-by-the-speakers loud. We "oohed" and "aahed" at least I think we did but I might be mistaken because I was reading lips. Because I COULDN'T HEAR MYSELF THINK.

Our cat, bless his heart, was stretched out as far as he could be, nosing around a corner to have a look at the monstrosity. He was curious and only slightly timid, which we took to be a good sign. Over the course of the 35 minute cycle (yes, you read that correctly) he inched his way closer to the laundry room until eventually, he was perched atop the washing machine staring at his new potty below. It's safe to say that he wasn't impressed.

We left the old litter box in the room like the manual said. We were to let the old box get all nasty and full so that our boy would make the choice to use his new one.

That didn't work.

Instead, we got a filthy eyesore perched under the open window and those lovely spring breezes we experienced this weekend picked up the scent of excrement and gently wafted it through the house.

I got a bit edgy.

We read in one of the manuals that we might want to try filling our cat's old litter box full of the new plastic pellets that lined his new one. That sounded like a good idea.

Yeah, that didn't work either.

He hopped right in and used the box with the weird pellets but he didn't scrape and scratch and then, he couldn't get out of that thing fast enough. That little voice inside my head told me we were in trouble.

And instead of voicing my concerns to my infinitely patient husband, I did something monumentally stupid.

Remember hearing of parents who hope to teach their kids to swim by throwing them in the water? Well, my next move was to insist that we remove the old litter box entirely and make him use his new one. Because forcing cats to comply has worked so well in the past. Dallas raised his eyebrows but didn't make a fuss. He removed the old litter box to the litter box graveyard garage, where it kept company with all the other Littermaids that had bit the dust.

Sunday, we woke up peacefully to no children, a gorgeous morning and zero obligations. I got up to make coffee and walked out to the living room to find that our sweet and clearly desperate cat had SHAT IN THE GODDAMN NORFOLK ISLAND PINE plant. Except, I didn't know that right away.

Oh and he scratched alright. We had dirt flung over a six foot radius on the BEIGE carpet. I'm not kidding. So, being anal retentive and just one cell shy of a working brain, I hauled out my freaking $500 Dyson vacuum and began to suck up the mess until the smell and the chunks of what I thought was soil, but was actually POOP encased in soil, began to smear on the inside of the vacuum's dirt receptacle and stink up my personal space.

I retched.

And then I swore.

I marched back into the bedroom and announced that the effing Cat Genie was history. My husband calmly answered, "OK babe." Which is a perfect example of why I married him. Because he takes crazy and does wonders with it.

And then I walked into the laundry room to find our cat peeing on a beautiful, handmade tablecloth that we had purchased in Mexico.

I swore again.

By this time, my hubby had gotten up in an effort to help. For the next hour, Dallas quietly unplumbed and dismantled the CatGenie and placed it back into its original shipping container. At some point, one of us opened the door leading to the garage and our cat bolted through it. I was content to leave him in there all day but necessity forced me to open it back up to get some cleaning supplies.

On a shelf on top of a storage bin and about six inches from the shelf above it, we had placed one of the old litter boxes. Inside it, cramped and concentrating, was our cat going about his business. It was then that I knew that we had made the right decision because if the cat could find that bloody litter box in the expanse of the garage, with the golf clubs and Christmas decorations and Harley gear and garden equipment, there was no way that he couldn't find one an inch from his nose in the laundry room. He would never have used the CatGenie. EVER. And this might just an enormous blessing in disguise if the Amazon reviews of this product are any indication.

So, I'm an idiot, the cat is clever and we're going to exercise that money back guarantee because I'll be damned if I ever clean cat shit out of my vacuum again.

(And for Mark N...top left of the page. Sorry..it's not terribly prominent.)

Litterbox Nightmares

We recently purchased a new litter box for our cat.

Yes, another one. I know this has you scratching your head and wondering if we are serial litter box purchasers because we seem to be obsessed. And you would be right. We are. Or rather, I am.

See, animal waste is really problematic for me. I'm not one of those back to nature gals that will go for a walk in the forest and find a pile of scat endlessly interesting. I prefer not to see it and, dear god, please don't let me smell it.

Because I will be able to smell it for days.

In weird places.

Like my sock drawer.

Anyway...

Last year, I was at a pet product trade show and saw this machine:

And I know it looks like a giant cat toilet. It touts itself as the "World's Only Self-Flushing, Self-Washing Cat Box".

Apparently, once your cat understands that this is where it is supposed to do its business, your life will be magically transformed and you will never have to think about cat scat again.

This year, Dallas and I were back at that same trade show and decided to take advantage of show prices and purchase one of these units.

After shelling out an insane amount of money, I happened to go online and read some of the more recent reviews for the product. And they aren't pretty. People talk of toxic smells and "cooked poo".

I'M SCARED.