Dodie Cross - A Broad Abroad in Thailand

While it may seem like a thrilling, luxurious life to travel thousands of miles and enjoy the culture of a new land, being a tourist is quite different from being a resident. As Cross shares in A Broad Abroad in Thailand, your new life can sometimes be a rude awakening.

While Thailand is a beautiful place and filled with luxury living for tourists, day-to-day life can be a little less glamorous. Anyone who has lived in another country will be able to relate to Cross's experiences of finding out the realities of living a new life abroad.

Cross shares both joy and misery as she recounts the time she's spend in Thailand. She strikes a fine balance between humor and seriousness as she describes the conditions of the healthcare system as well as prevalent orphanages in the country.

If you've ever lived abroad, you'll relate perfectly to the feelings that come from living in a new culture and seeing it through your own culture's eyes. You'll also find that her story is real. It's not about having a cocktail at your local resort - it's about living within a culture and seeing both its beauty and its flaws.

Combined with her personal struggle of being in a more than unhappy relationship, you'll find Cross's story compelling and page-turning. You won't be able to put it down as you share her experiences living as an expat.

Many people consider writing a memoir to share their personal stories with their families, friends, and even the general public. Cross does an amazing job of sharing her personal story with both honesty and humor. If you've been thinking about writing your own memoir, you'll certainly want to take a look at the way she does it.

A memoir can evoke emotion, it can share details about your life that no one has ever known. It can give you a way to look back on the events of your life and determine how they've shaped you and those around you.

Cross does just that in A Broad Abroad in Thailand. She shares her experiences with raw honesty that helps you to understand what it is that has shaped her own life. She helps you to see a different culture through her eyes. And she even shares her mistakes and slipups along the way.

As a reader, you'll connect to her memoir in a personal way. And as someone interested in writing your own memoir, you'll find that she provides a role model for the story you have waiting to be told. You'll find that writing a memoir doesn't have to be boring - it can really express the roller coaster that defines many people's lives.

Cross is a freelance writer who has spent her life traveling all over the world. She has written for numerous publications The Desert Sun and the Seattle Post Intelligencer. She is a member of the American Pen Women and she currently writes a column for the Palm Springs Writers' Guild. She has shared her experiences as an expat and also writes for several e-zines dedicated to that topic.

In addition to her writing experience, she also conducts workshops on creating your own memoir. She can help you to take your experiences and mold them into a compelling piece of writing that many other people will enjoy. If you're an expat, you'll particularly relate to her experiences. But even if you've never traveled outside of your state, you'll find her story compelling and entertaining.

Dodie Cross is currently married and has four children. She's the proud grandmother of nine grandchildren. She currently splits her time between two homes - one in Lake Chelan, Washington and the other in Palm Springs.

She continues to share her love of travel and keen observations about culture. Her next book A Broad Abroad in Iran: One Strappy Sandaled Foot Ahead of the Mullahs (During the Revolution) is coming soon. Look for it in the near future at your local bookstore.

Has any woman out there, other than me, ever wondered why torsos, hands and feet, noses and ears get larger as we age? Why hair diminishes in certain places and sprouts in others? Why some things shrink, while others enlarge, get droopier and downright ugly? Why is it we now have to stand on tip toes to brush our teeth? What happened to our height? We droop where we once protruded (breasts), we sag where we once were firm (belly and buttocks), we spread where we once were shapely (waistline and hips), and get hairless where once we had... well, you get the picture.

I admit I have no biology degree, but I truly think the reason age sneaks up and hits us broadside is because Mother Nature is killing off good brain cells, and so slowly we don't notice the subtle changes taking place.

She really is a bitch! And she continues to play her cruel little joke on us, one brain cell at a time. And, what about the height thing? I was a willowy 5'7" in my 20s when I married my 5'9 husky husband. I seriously thought of tossing my 3" heels, but just couldn't bring myself to do it. Female feet and legs look so much sexier when fitted in stiletto heels-rather than being planted flat on the ground resembling swim fins.

My next husband, a few years younger than me (that was the trend in the 90s), told me he was 5'10. I now felt pretty good about my three-inch heels. But, as the years ebbed on, I noticed I was on tip-toes when giving him a kiss goodbye. Wait a minute, how could that be?

Then, just last week I found myself questioning the image I saw in my bathroom mirror. Something was seriously wrong. I pulled my hair back from my face to inspect for wrinkles and let out a small EEK! Someone had replaced my ears with the map of India. Okay, who's the wiseacre? As I stared into the mirror I was gripped by fear. Who are you and what have you done with the pretty, young woman who lived here?

I had also noticed more strands of gray popping up indiscriminately. Now my visits to the No-More-Gray salon were becoming so frequent even the janitor knew me by my first name.

And speaking of hair...what's with the hair thing? Why is there thinning where great thatches once grew, only to supplant itself on faces where no decent female follicles should ever see the light of day? The only good thing about this aging thing and hair is that I don't have to shave my pits or legs any longer, however, I could do very nicely without the three wild ones growing under my chin, or the ones sprouting from a cute little beauty mark just above my lip that I thought made me look Cindy Crawford-ish, which now looks more like a hairy mole.

I went to the ear doctor for a ringing in my ears. The normal tests were done and I was led to his office for the verdict...er, diagnosis. "You have quite a hearing deficit in your left ear," he said, looking very concerned as he was taught to look in medical school.

"Really, I hadn't noticed any change in hearing," I answered. "If anything, my ears seem to be getting larger and I thought I'd hear much better." (A little humor in the doctor's office never hurts.)
He smiled the smile that all doctors rehearse for imbecilic patients. "Yes, well, ah, that's not quite the case. You see."
"Doctor, I was kidding."
"Very well. Ah, as I was going to say, as you age."
"Stop! Please! I don't want to hear that. Why is it always about age? Maybe I like the look of big ears. I think it gives me a rather exotic look."
"Very well," (another thing they say when they're sure their patient has gone round the bend) "back to your hearing problems and age."

I left in a huff. What an idiot!

As I drove home I had a Eureka moment! It was all quite clear now.

I AM OLD! How could that be? I was just a young girl the other day. But all the signs are there; gaining inches and losing inches in all the wrong places, hearing problems and dizziness, hairless and wild hairs.

The next stop was my gym. "Hi, Jay, do you have scales with that thingamabob on top where I can measure my height?"

"Sure, in the office, go on in."

I took off my shoes and socks. I put them back on. Maybe I should put that cute little ortho heel lift back in my shoe; the one I keep in my purse until it's time to see my back doctor.

Prepared for the worst, I stepped on the scales. An audio voice rang out: ONE AT A TIME PLEASE! Sheesh! Everything in this gym needs maintenance, now even the scales were off kilter. Obviously this machine needs some serious calibration. You know those balance weights have to be just right for the correct weight to register. I fiddled around with them but nothing seemed to change. Okay, I'll just subtract five pounds, back to what my bathroom scale reads. And it's accurate.

Truth be told I had noticed my clothes were a tad snug lately. There was more tension in my waist band than in the Middle East. I complained to the owner of my local dry cleaners. "You really need to take better care of my expensive clothes," I said. "Everything you dry-cleaned for me in the last year seems to have shrunk."

"Maybe sometime you buy not good kind of cloth," the astute Asian cleaner suggested. "Oh, maybe you get fat."

Well, how nervy!

Maybe I have been known to grab a shirt now and then at Wal-Mart, but only because I'm in there looking for diet books, otherwise I'd never dream of buying clothes there. But, really, aren't most of the clothes we buy today made in those third-world sweat shops? So they really never are up to our U.S. size specifications. No wonder nothing fits me.

I reached for the little doohickey on top of the scales to measure my height, and placed it on top of my head. "Jay, are you busy?" I called out, "could you come read this for me. I'm afraid if I step down it'll drop some, and I won't get a true reading."

"Sure," he said, walking over to me with the walk all those exercise-types seem to have. You know, the I can crush your finger between my pecs look.

He pushed the rod down on my scalp. "Wait, you're pushing too hard, you're compressing my skin against my skull."
"No, dear, just trying to get an accurate reading here."
"Never mind, Jay, I'll try it myself. Thanks for the help." I'm not letting some Schwarzenegger-type, with his T-shirt bulging, neck like a tree-trunk, and wasp waist try to make me shorter than I am. Nosiree! I can do it the right way.
I reached over my head, pulled the doohickey down so it stopped on my new Dorothy Hamil hairdo; the one the salon girls call "a question-mark-look" on the back of your head. It really does add some height, as well as giving you the skating star look. I could feel it resting nicely on top of my pouf as I raised it just a smidgen so as not to mess up my new do. I stepped off the scales, holding the bar with my left hand.

I didn't want to look. I was afraid of what I'd see. Should I do it? Maybe not! I felt like I was unleashing the secrets of the Big Bang. Some things are best left to the gods of height, weight and aging.
I turned slowly.
I peered closely.
Then I put on my cute little reading glasses that I only wear when no one is looking.
I cried loudly.
How could that be? I'd always been a stately 5'7. Friends would sometimes tell me that I looked classy because I was tall; that I should have been a model; that everything fit me so well. Never mind that it was thirty years ago, those musical words still got me through my days.

The bar, which had sat upon my pouf, now measured 5'5. EEEK!

I sometimes take a walk down memory lane when I'm feeling sad, or useless, or unappreciated, or...you know, the "O" word. I get out the dusty, plastic covered photo album that I started putting together in the 60's-and then I cry.
What happened to that tall, svelte, young woman? Where in the hell did she go? That girl in the pictures, looking so model-esque, wearing a size 4 dress and a size 7 shoe. But those legs and feet! So dainty and elegant; race horse ankles someone once said. I think it was my mother.

I also had to consider some strange phenomena that had been happening over the last few years, but chose to ignore. My husband brought it to my attention.
"Are your feet sore?"
"Why did you ask that?"
"I've noticed lately that you're limping. Are you shoes too tight?
What nerve! "Probably a little edema," I muttered. Lately I had noticed I couldn't "slip" into my shoes like I used to.
Okay, already! Maybe I did need a larger size. I'd probably gone up a half size since my child-bearing years. I did hear that your feet grow a tad with every child.
The next day at the mall I stepped into a shoe store.
"Ma'am, I think you must be mistaken about the size of your feet," the salesman said.
"Don't be impertinent, young man." Ohmygawd, I sounded like my third grade teacher, Sister Mary Ruler-Wacker. "I should know what size I wear."
"Yes Ma'am, I just..."
"And please don't call me Ma'am. It sounds old."
He looked down. Was that a smile I saw? I think I'll slap him when he looks up again.
He walked to the stock room and returned with three very large boxes.
"Why such large boxes? I'm not into work boots."
"I thought possibly you'd like to try a few other sizes. I'll just set them here for you to try on." And he high-tailed it back to the stock room.
What terrible work ethics people have nowadays! In my day...Egad, now I was my mother.
I opened the first box. Size 9s. How rude! I pushed them to the side. I made a mental note to talk to his supervisor. The next box said 9-1/2s. Well for gawd sake, what an idiot. The next box was... never mind. I tried on the 9s, too small. What is it with these Italian shoemakers today? They probably were a European 9, which equates to a US 7, I rationalized. I reached for the 9-1/2s. I held my hand over the size on the box in case anyone was watching. Ohmygawd! They felt wonderful.

What it boils down to is this: Mother Nature can go take a fat hike on her little cupid feet. Clever, how she never ages, isn't it? Too bad all she has to look good for is ageless Father Time, and he's sure no prize!