I wonder what it would be like to do a Drive-Thru getaway. I’m not talking about living a Boyz-in-the-Hood fantasy and running from an inner-city gang fight; I’m talking about running away from a Drive-Thru window after you placed your order.

I considered doing this the other day after I agreed to order a raspberry milkshake at Heber City’s renowned Dairy Keen. (Not a Blizzard from another burger joint with an oddly similar name.) I originally wanted a raspberry “yogurt”-shake—but when a squeaky adolescent voice told me they no longer offered frozen yogurt, I found myself in a difficult situation: do I order a normal milkshake, even though I don’t want one? Normal people would have opted for a regular milkshake (or would have just ordered it in the first place) but I’m not normal; I’m a girl. And as a girl, I worry about fat and calories and shoes and celebrity gossip and fitting into my jeans.

With no appetizing alternative on the menu, and three other cars idling impatiently in line behind me, I reluctantly agreed to a regular raspberry milkshake. But within seconds of that decision, I felt a pit land in my second as guilt set in: an ice cream milkshake at 2:00 p.m. on a meaningless Thursday wasn’t a good enough excuse for indulgence.

Although such reasoning is illogical and out-right silly to many, especially 15-32 males with high metabolisms, it wasn’t as silly as how I was trying to plan my getaway from the drive-thru line so I wouldn’t have to pay for 800 calories I don’t need.

But the real crime I was committing was thinking frozen yogurt is any better/healthier than the real thing.
Frozen yogurt has been a mystery to many since its inception in the early 90s. It was created to help fat people “think” they are choosing a healthy substitution when they are still feeding their bodies with loads of sugar and taking step closer to Type 2 diabetes. Although this misperception was caught on early by Dr. Atkins and comedy screenwriters (see Seinfeld episode #71 titled “The Non-Fat Yogurt”), the frozen dessert still fools many.

Anyway, I didn’t run. I paid the four bucks for something I took two bites of and then dumped it on the side of the road like a gangsta would dump a dead body. I quickly sped away without ever looking back.

To all my datejenny readers out there, or to all that haven’t given up on checking my blog over the last few weeks, I’m back. I’ve never gone this long without writing a post since I’ve started. But I have a good excuse, and it’s quite an appropriate excuse for the theme of my blog. I have been dating a boy.

All those nights when I was lonely and had nothing to do but write about my singledom are now filled with the company of a 6’2, blue-eyed, former model who doesn’t want anyone to know that he is a former model. (He should have never told me.)

But I want to be back at the keyboard. If you don’t write regularly, the “writing” part of your brain gets fat and lazy, and it gets harder and harder to get the words out; and before you know it, “writing” was something you tried to do once, like yoga.

Most writers have a schedule. Stephen King writes everyday from 5 am to noon, even if he’s not working on a novel. David Sedaris always carries a pen and small notebook so he never forgets an idea (they come when you least expect them). Ernest Hemmingway had a quota of 500 words a day, etc., etc.

I…I have nothing, and because of this, I’m failing to become a writer. I have some ideas I believe are publishable, but because I’m not being disciplined to really write them, they’ll just sit on a shelf in my brain and collect dust with all my other dreams, like doing a headstand.

But it’s a new year, and although most resolutions end up in the brain’s dumpster after the first two weeks in January, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep trying to make resolutions. My new year’s resolution is to write every Monday through Friday. How much or for how long is to be determined, but I must write consistently, or I’m going to throw myself into a real dumpster. And if I can’t make it past the first two weeks in January, I’m going to start making “new month’s resolutions,” or “new week’s resolutions,” or even “new day’s resolutions.”

Anyway, I’m sure my two readers who have diligently checked datejenny.com everyday don’t want to hear about my fat, lazy brain but the juicy news that I’m kissing a boy. This new situation should give me some new material to write about, so I’ll write more, and you can read more, we’ll all be happy—except for him. He’s a little nervous about this blog.

Well, here he is. Quite model-ish, no? There is more to him, but wait until you see a full-body shot.

If I had to choose one image to associate with Southeast Asia, it would have to be the motorbike.

They’re everywhere. The streets Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and Ho Chi Minh are constantly filled with swarms of pint size motorbikes buzzing around like a mad hive defying the written rules of society. In other words, drivers don’t particularly obey traffic laws.

But after some time navigating the streets either by foot, in a tuk tuk (small carriage pulled by a motorbike), or on a motorcycle myself, I discovered there is actually some order in this chaos.

Below are some tips Jeff suggested on how to navigate the streets of Southeast Asia.

On foot.

-There is never a perfect time to cross the street, so you just have to step out into the road and pretend it’s a game of Frogger. However, you cannot make like a deer in headlights; you cannot hesitate. Suddening stopping is more dangerous than moving thru the traffic.

On motorcycle.

- Act indifferent towards other drivers on the road. If you are courteous, no one will be courteous to you.

- Do not check blind spots. For if they see that you see them, they won’t feel they need to stop.

-When passing via oncoming traffic, flashing your lights is essentially an invitation for a game of chicken, for if you flash your lights, you’re essentially communicating to the oncoming driver that won’t be the one that’s moving out of the way.

- When turning left, you do not cross the street then redirect in your own lane. Instead, turn left into oncoming traffic, staying off the side of the road until you have an opening to merge right into the correct direction of traffic.

- A horn is often used to let other motorists know where you are, so it’s used everytime you pass anything–car, kids, water buffalo. Also, there are lots of other horns you’re competing with, so the louder the better.

All of this was too much for me to take on my own, so I spent most of the time riding on the back of Jeff’s rental bike.

I did, however, finally get my own on our second-to-last day in the small beach town Mui Ne.

Other than a little bit of carbon monoxide poisoning, I’m still alive.

Here’s Jeff in Phnom Penh…

Disclaimer: There has been no editing on this post, nor any other posts between November 14 to November 29. If you see a typo or misplaced word, deal with it.

Cambodia. Wow. I wasn’t expecting I’d really like this place. First, the weather has been quite nice–not the sticky humidity I was preparing myself for. Granted, it’s the winter season, but the current weather is definitely increasing my affinity for the place.

For the last two days, Jeff and I have been visiting the various temples in the northwest-ish region of the country. Angkor Wat, the most famous of these temples, is considered one the world’s seven ancient wonders (Can someone actually fact check that, please? Not sure if it is, but sounds good in my post.). It’s a source of large national pride for Cambodians, and although it’s filled with tourists, you still feel like you’re experiencing the real Cambodia.

At each of the temple and ruins sites, you are immediately approached by a battallion of vendors to buy their scarves, bracelets, or meals. These vendors are often little kids who robotically repeat English phrases such as “Want a cold drink? Best price for you” until it feels like a natural sound like a bird in the trees. I express no interest in buying any trickets from them, but they all try their best to sell their products. My favorite has been a little boy who ran up and broke thru the crowd of kids around us jumping and shouting, “Buy something from me! Buy something from me!” and he didn’t even have anything to sell.

But they sure are cute kids, and with Jeff who speaks Cambodian, we can have a little more fun with them.

I would, however, love to buy something from them and send them away with a smile instead of defeat, but I don’t know if that’s the best way to do it.

While driving along a country road, passing little wooden homes with dirt floors and tin roofs, Jeff turned to me and asked, “Is it hard for you to see all this poverty?”

I said yes and no. Yes for obvious reasons–I hate seeing sickness and poor sanitary conditions. That can be hard to see. But for the most part, a lot of these kids seem very happy, and I don’t know if I want them to know a life of video games, SUVs and designer clothes. As long as they have good health, living conditions and education, they can have a meaningful life. Am I totally out of place saying this?

Anyway, I’m still trying to figure out the best way to solve the world’s problems, and the more I think thru this, the more I realize how important schools ate in these developing countries. The next day we were eating breakfast when another cute little girl of about 8 yesrs came up to us with a basket of postcards, wooden flutes, and what looked like the friendship bracelets I made as a kid. I was expecting the same mantras I had heard before, but I was delightfully surprised when she said “I’ll tell you the capital of Madagascar if you buy something from me.” It made us laugh!

The girl then asked where I was from, to which I responded America, and she told me how much she likes our new president. She then asked me what state I lived in, to which I responded Utah, and she told me the capital of Utah is Salt Lake City. Impressed, we then quizzed her on other state capitals, and she answered each one correctly (for the most part) with a big, toothy grin.

I asked her if she had made any of the items in her basket, and she shook her head. Good, I thought, the items were crap, and this girl showed a lot more potential than making cheesy souvenirs. I politely declined her last offer to buy something, and I wished her luck on her way.

But now I kind of regret not buying anything from her. For one, I don’t actually know the capital of Madagascar; and two, I like how she tried to use her education to get ahead. Maybe a purchase would have reinforced the importance of education in her mind, or maybe it would have just reinforced that tourists are just suckers for a puppy-dog face. Either way, she was pretty cute.

On the Beaten Path

When you visit a place that’s full of old people, you know you’re ON the beaten path.

Right now we’re on a little cruiser in Halong Bay, a beautiful enclove in the South China Sea known for its huge limestone cliffs that shoot straight up out of the water.

I was more excited to see this place over any other on my trip here based on the pictures I saw on the Internet.
And apparently so was everyone else.

This place is packed with tourists, which is fine. There are some touristy things you just gotta do when you travel. But when I was in a long line of 70-year-old Euro-looking people wearing bright white Reebok sneakers and navy blue windbreakers waiting my turn to walk thru one of the caves within these cliffs, I realized how commercialized Vietnam has become.

I kind of I feel that because I’m carrying a backpack on my back and staying in cheap guesthomes where I have to leave the nights on at night to deter the bedbugs from coming out to feed on me while I sleep, that I deserve more of the “real” Vietnam experience over someone with a more credit on their AmEx dragging a Samsonite suitcase on wheels. But if someone with a cane can visit the same places I want to visit, I don’t feel like I’m really being that adventurous.

But I don’t know if I’m really all that gutsy. Language, standards on acceptable sanitary conditions, and my blonde hair seems to always keep me on the beaten path. Last Spring when I ws traveling South America, my Spanish helped me connect with the locals and spend time away from the “What To Do” recommendations in the guidebook. That’s not the case here.

But I’m fine with it. The Vietnamese people are very warm and friendly; I have never seen faces smile so big. Sure, some are just trying to get me to buy a used John Grisham novel from their pile of books, but I appreciate the smile nontheless.

Below is a list of some interesting things I’m noticing about Vietnam:

-Very safe. Have never sensed any eyeballs on me. Granted, I’m with a dude who is 6′5, but I imagine the consequences of attacking a tourist are pretty severe in a communist country.

-Not a lot of smokers, compared to what I’ve seen in other countries.

-This is a spa lovers paradise. Hour massages for ten bucks. Ninety minutes for $17. And they are the best massages I’ve ever had. (But the beds are awfully hard. Like sleeping on a brick. A country needs cheap massages if they sleep on stuff like this.)

-Although the traffic is crazy, they don’t drive that fast, so it doesn’t feel that dangerous really when we pass people on the opposite side of the road through oncoming traffic.

-Hanoi, and Northern Vietnam right now, is cold and dry. I’ve been freezing the last few days. Definitely needed a parka at Halong Bay.

-And some others I can’t think of right now. I’ll throw them in later.

Next I’m off to Siem Reap in Cambodia to visit the temples of Angkor Wat. My fantasy of becoming Lara Croft Tomb Raider are finally going to come true! (Movie was filmed there, if you didn’t know.)

Geez. That was the longest leg of traveling I’ve ever done! Two hours to Seattle. 12 hours to Tokyo. 6.5 hours to Ho Chi Minh. 6 hours layover in Ho Chi Minh in the middle night while we wait for our 6:30 a.m. flight. (We ended up waiting in the airport on a metal window sill. It’s times like these when I REALLY ask myself, “what the hell am I doing?”) Then 2.5 hours to Hanoi airport, 1 hour bus ride into the city, 30 minutes walking around to find a hotel, 5 minutes checking out the room for acceptable sanitary conditions, and finally 10 seconds taking a deep breath knowing I finally made it.

During all this, I kept my watch on Utah time so I could log the exact amount of hours it took from leaving my garage in Park City to finding a place to sleep in Hanoi–our first stop. 36 friggin’ hours!

Whatever. I’m finally here and ready to get rolling.

First, some background info. I’m traveling here with a young man named Jeff. I met Jeff about a year and a half ago thru my BFF Kat in SLC. He’s a 26-year-old kid from Arizona who has some boring business-y job in Salt Lake (he said it, not I). Jeff and I played golf a few times the summer we met then lost touch and didn’t see each other until last June. We again played some rounds until Jeff threw out the idea of going to Vietnam. I told him don’t invite me to go, because I’ll really do it, and…well…yadda yadda yadda…here we are.

Right now I’m sitting at a cafe somewhere in the middle of the city typing away on my iPhone. It’s a totally Americanized restaurant, which I really try to avoid while abroad, but I’ve been traveling for so long, eating nothing but airline food and granola bars, that I’m anxious to eat before a hypoglycemic headache sets in. Also, I’m just not mentally ready to eat some of the sketchy stuff I’ve passed on the side of the street.

I feel I should try the local food, but I need to psyche myself up for it. Jeff, who loves the stuff, graciously agreed to settle on this cafe.

So as I’m typing right now, I’m looking out the window at this scene I feel perfectly captures what I’m feeling right now.

It’s an intersection where everything from cars, motorbikes, push-carts, bicycles and humans are all criss-crossing at once admist the noise of horns, motors, and yelling vendors.

I had to cross this street earlier (to get to the restaurant) and jeff told me the key was to not stop whatsoever in the middle of the street, for if you hesitate, you throw the caotic order of the whole system off. So I just put my head down (Actually, don’t put your head down. That would be stupid. But be unwavering in your stride) and walked steadily across the street. If I felt any deer-in-headlights reaction at the sight of an oncoming motorist, I forced myself to keep my feet moving.

This is likely a good analogy of what this brief trip to southeast Asia will be like: sheer caos. But if at any moment I feel like I’m gonna get run over, I’m just going to stay pace with my step and hope I make it across the street.

Well, here we go again. This has been my fifth trip to the airport this year. Just when I put away my suitcase I’m pulling it out again.

Today I’m on my way to Vietnam. For the next two weeks I’ll be touring Ho Chi Minh City, Ha Noi, Ha Long Bay, Phu Quoc island, as well as Angkor Wat and Phenom Penn in Cambodia.

My parents think I’m all-out crazy. I think it’s a slight chemical imbalance as a result of the two head injuries I sustained as a toddler because my mom was too busy supporting our family with her craft business while my dad was in med school to adequately watch me. I just point to the two huge scars on my forehead and mouth the words, “Not my fault. You should have kept a better eye on me.”

Despite my disability from child neglect, my compulsive travel may simply be an addiction to adrenaline. I get the same high jumping on an airplane that some people do jumping off one. And the more exotic the destination, the higher the jump.

So I can’t really say if this is ever going to stop. Maybe when I get really sick, or I run out of money, or when I’m finally kidnapped into the Albanian slave trade. (I hope I at least got for a high price.)

But just as the skydiver always has an inner feeling of relief and gratitude when his feet safely touch the earth, so do I when I look out the window and I see the Wasatch mountains as the plane starts it’s decent to the Salt Lake City airport. I love making it back home safely. Maybe that’s what I’m really addicted to.

The other day I was going through some old photos, and I came across a group photo of all my girlfriends during prom. There were about 15 of us in the picture. I started pointing at each one: “Married. Married. Married with two kids.” Then I came to me, who was sitting at the end of the line. “And single.” Out of the 15 girls, I was the only one still single. It made me laugh.

Unfortunately, I’m not really in touch with any friends from High School. I feel we live very different lives now.

But last week I went to a baby shower for one of my best friends from High School—Lindsey. It had been a couple years since I saw my high school friends, but Lindsey was a close friend, and I wanted to see her.

Nevertheless, I still feel out of place at these things. I have nothing to contribute to the conversations of the birthing process and baby toys. I sit there and smile while they talk about if they prefer boppies to bumbos to bouncers, and I sit there disgusted when they talk about dilating and ripping and placenta abruptions.

I was tempted to jump in and talk about my puppy, and how I prefer the larger rawhide bones to the smaller ones, and that the flavored bones aren’t worth it because the color can sometimes bleed onto things.

Then I overheard someone say, “It’s so weird how we’re all here now talking about babies and kids.” She didn’t realize I heard what she said, for it wasn’t true.

Not ALL of us are at this place in their life yet. And I’m not ready for it yet. Tomorrow I leave for another trip abroad: I’m going to Vietnam and Cambodia for two weeks. A golf buddy threw it out there to me a couple months ago, and after some thought, I said to myself, “Why the hell not? I’m still young, single, and…well…free.”

And I love that feeling. So if you think my traveling is excessive, I’d like to share with you the follow poem from the beloved J.R.R. Tolkien from The Fellowship of the Ring:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Remember, “not all those who wander are lost.” Not all those Mormon girls are dying to get married and have kids (yet). I still have some more things to see.

**Ah, Jenny’s adventures just never seem to stop. Please follow her latest on www.datejenny.com. She’ll be trying to update daily.

I never wanted to go here on my blog. Really. But due to my addiction to comedic pundits on Comedy Central, a $10 surcharge on my phone bill because I exceeded my month’s texting limit from too many text discussions over healthcare, and a pointed finger with the condemning exclamation “You’re a democrat!?” directed at me in the middle of church, I figured the subject of politics might be worthy of a blog post.

Politics. It’s one of two things they say you should never discuss with other people—at least when you’re young and single and trying to make a good impression on other young, single people who are better looking than you. Or is it? It’s actually been useful on some boring dates where I wanted to go home early. I just say something like “don’t you feel Obama was called by God?” and I’m usually home in 15 minutes (only really works here in Utah).

But I felt I shouldn’t feign political indifference anymore. Actually, I haven’t really been feigning anything. I honestly don’t know where I stand on a lot of issues. I could just continue to follow the Mormon ducks in front of me and stick a “Romney 2012” sign on my front lawn and call it good, or I could figure out how I really felt myself.

So I decided to jump in the mosh pit of political madness—watching cable news networks instead of E! News Daily, throwing out my Self magazines and subscribing to Newsweek, and simply asking smart people what they thought about the issues.

And where did I come up? A little left, and people don’t think I’m serious. First, I’m accused of being a “pretend liberal” and that I support Obama because he had cool campaign graphics and that I probably harbor fantasies of dating a black dude (guilty, but not why I like Obama).

Second, I think Glenn Beck is a friggin’ idiot. That guy is a nutcase. His fake tears and blumberings can send anyone running from wanting to associate with anything labeled “conservative.” Last week I overheard a conversation at church about Glenn Beck’s conversion story (He’s Mormon. Please don’t judge Mormons for that) and how cool it was. It actually is a cool conversion story, but I somehow slipped and said he was still an idiot, and the guy looked at me with a scowl that I feared would cause a permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows. Too bad, I thought he was pretty cute.

So I face a major decision: do I continue to put my politics above my personal needs, or do I stick a “Yes to Prop 8” sign next to the Romney one outside my home? I think I might be single for a while.

**Jenny has no problems dating anyone of any particular racial, religious, or political affiliation—except if you support Glenn Beck. Without a doubt, liking that man is a dealbreaker in any potential relationship.

I’m very suspicious of guys, and people in general for that matter, if they say they don’t like dogs. A red flag pops up in my head, and I immediately feel a disconnect with the person.

Now don’t take me for one for those dog freaks who treat their pets like humans. No, dogs have their place in my book, and it’s under my command. But the other day I was talking a guy who mentioned he wasn’t very fond of man’s best friend, and I was slightly put off.

How could you not like dogs? I’m not saying you have to set a place for them at the kitchen table or carry pictures of them in your wallet, and I definitely don’t think everyone should own one or seven, but expressing disdain for one of the world’s most loyal creatures—may be a symptom of a very cold heart.

Let me try explaining another way. When I see a guy greet a dog in a high-pitched puppy voice saying, “hey there buddy, how ya doing?” A Ralph Lauren ad immediately flashes in my head of a beachside deck where a great-looking model wearing a tight-fitting Polo shirt and khakis is laughing and playing with a handsome Tibetan Terrier. Girls don’t necessarily realize it, but their brain then subconsciously replaces themself for the dog, and they imagine that loving affection being directed toward them.

But silly romance fantasies aside, not liking dogs is just, well, un-American. When someone says he doesn’t like dogs, its synonymous with him saying he doesn’t like backyard BBQs or singing the song “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” If someone says he doesn’t like dogs, I assume he also despises smiling little kids with sticky popsicle hands (sure, they’re a little gross, but so cute) or Disney movies from the late 70s/early 80s era. Seriously, if a guy doesn’t cry at the end of the Fox and the Hound, he is a cold, cold soul, because all these things I said above represent one thing: love (and America). In short, people who don’t like dogs, don’t like love.

I agree that dogs aren’t convenient. They shed, slobber, stink, poop, and make it significantly more difficult to go on vacation. I’m not an advocate for everyone owning a dog. And I’m equally not an advocate for dog lovers owning dogs and not controlling them or picking up after their poop. But that is irrelevant to my point. My point is that one must embrace the “idea” of the dog—loyalty, devotion, and love, as well as their affinity for chasing squirrels, rolling in the mud, and doing dumb tricks for food.

So my recommendation to all you dog haters out there is to hide your spite. Nobody wants a dog hater in this country just like nobody wants a terrorist. And in the meantime, add Old Yeller, White Fang, and Homeward Bound to your Netflix queue. No one but the devil himself can still despise those slobbering hairballs after watching these canine classics.