Merry Christmas

Lord, make us instruments of Thy peace.

Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; 

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light; 

where there is sadness, joy. 

O Divine Master grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand; 

to be loved as to love. 

For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; 

it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

- Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi

Merry Christmas! 

sounds of the season

Christmas isn't Christmas to me without music. But I have a few favorites that I just can't live without. Like this one:

Or this one:

Or this one:

What's yours?

food for the 1%

Now that I work in the Real World where people go to their offices every day and work like drones until 5 or sometimes 6 and then march home only to wait to start it all over again, I've discovered that office buildings around here throw Christmas holiday parties as a way to treat their tenants to something nice (or in my case, a way to placate us because they only turn the heat on once a week and, naturally, that makes us a little angry). Our building isn't super fancy and I doubt we have the highest rent in the neighborhood. Here is a selection from our menu:

bacon-wrapped scallops; meatballs; vegetable spring rolls; a cheese platter and crackers (with pepperjack, cheddar, and mozzarella); shrimp and crab dip; assorted cakes and pastries

It was nice, but nothing too spectacular, as was the quality/flavor of the food. Now let's look at T-rav's building party, which, might I add, was serenaded by a live harpist:

individual lamb shanks; duck and mango kebobs; a cheese platter (with fancy cheese); mushroom stuffed phyllo wraps; assorted tarts, pastries, and other delectables; an open bar with drinks all around

Let's just say Trav's was definitely a step up from mine. So is his building (in addition to the party, the partners in his company each received a holiday ham). I don't know if they would be considered part of the 1%...maybe the 5% (on a side note, isn't it interesting that 6 months ago, me saying "the 1%" would have had little to no meaning without context, but now it's common jargon for everyone in America! I love how language changes!), but as nice as it is to have a party (and I do like a party), I couldn't help but wonder if the world wouldn't be a better place if they donated all this extra money they have floating around rather than waste it on duck on lamb shanks. Surely the building budgets these extravagances into their leasing prices and part of what makes their building more desirable than others is their extravagance.

I just find it frustrating that so much money goes into a party "celebrating" a holiday that people are afraid to name when there are/were people protesting the economic gap a few blocks away, the national debt is rising, and people are starving in Africa. And Afghanistan. And China. And America.

And this is where T-rav jumps in and calls me a communist.

Scottish Christmas Walk (aka dog parade)

Old Town Alexandria does a parade every year, which, in my opinion, included all the things a successful parade needs: bagpipes, old cars, candy, and dogs. No floats, no baton twirlers, just pipers wearing kilts and every variety of terrier imaginable with a few hounds, setters, and sheepdogs thrown in the mix.

Sadly my camera battery died before I could photograph all the dogs I hope to adopt. For those of you who know Mr. T, just imagine 100 lil Towsers wearing their family's tartan, marching down the street to the beat of the drums. Yes. It was Fantastic.

T-rav thinks it's creepy that grown men, successful businessmen or politicians or whatever, dress up in elaborate costumes with big fuzzy hats and wolf head purses and parade through the streets waving sticks in the air or shooting off rifles every few hundred feet. What's so strange about that?

I, on the other hand, dream of doing historical reenactment. Madrigal dinners/concerts are my favorite. And then there's the whole Irish dancing thing--donning a curly wig, short skirt, and lots and lots of glitter and sparkles--I guess he'll just have to get used to it.

29.

Today I am 29.

Twenty-nine. And I still look about the same as my 8-year-old self. Except, sadly, my nose has grown. I should go find those old glasses...

So I have now entered the last year of my twenties. The end of life as I know it? Quite possibly. I'm trying to work out some way to come to grips with getting older...I'll let you know if I come up with anything. In the meantime, here's an interesting list of some of those who share my birthday.

1667 Jonathan Swift

1768 Jędrzej Śniadecki (I've never actually heard of him, but I wanted to type a coolies Polish name. Try and say it. Apparently he's a writer/physician/chemist/biologist)

1835 Mark Twain, aka Samuel Clemens

1874 Sir Winston Churchill

1929 Dick Clark

1955 Billy Idol

Other random facts about 30 November (thank you Wikipedia):

• The first international football match took place between Scotland and England in 1872.
• Oscar Wilde died in 1900.
• My saint is Andrew, a warrior saint and invoked against injustice, sterility, gout, dysentery, and, of course, wry neck. He is also the patron saint of Greece, Romania, Russia, Ukraine, and the Ecumenical Patrarchate of Constantinople.
• Barbados and South Yemen celebrate their independence from the UK today.
• Lucille Ball married Desi Arnaz in 1940.
• Ken Jennings finally lost a Jeopardy match in 2004.

Happy birthday to me!

ma'am or miss

While standing in the metro waiting for my train, a noticed a man standing nearly in my bubble of personal space. "Excuse me, ma'am" Who on earth could he be talking to? "Ma'am, do you have a dollar? I'm down to 80 cents on my train fare and didn't bring any cash with me." I think he's talking to me. But ma'am? Since when do I look like a ma'am? 

Which brings me to the question: which do you prefer, ma'am or miss? Or neither? I've always thought of ma'am as the title reserved for WOMEN. Moms. Grandmas. Miss is for young women who look like they might be in college. Or teenage girls. People like me. But apparently I look like I'm getting on in years, at least enough to be called ma'am. Or perhaps, as I prefer to think, miss is simply falling out of fashion. For example, I know that in German the charming word fraulein is falling out of use to be replaced across the board by the more dignified and all-encompassing frau. Is the same thing happening in French? Portuguese? Spanish? (I should know the answer to this in Italian, but it's been too long). Is this a conscious politically-correct thing to do (we don't know if someone is unmarried or young, so we'll call everyone ma'am to avoid potential mistakes) or something else? 

Whatever the case, ma'am just makes me feel so old. 

gratitude

I have been an ungrateful, cynical wretch the past few months. But mostly I'm impatient. After nearly 8 years of schooling between the two of us, many short-term jobs or career changes, and very little direction in our lives, I'm antsy, to put it mildly, for a little stability (note- I'm not antsy to settle down. That's a terrifying prospect), especially of the financial variety. I dream not of huge houses or fancy electronics or cars we can buy, but of having two incomes (that have no end date in sight) and a savings. I dream of hoarding my money.

I suppose all of this should have taught me patience, but it hasn't. Instead I've been more impatient and irritated when things haven't gone the way I planned. Or hoped. Or demanded. So in order to remind myself of all the things I do have, especially considering the approaching holiday, here's a short list of my blessings, in no particular order.

I have a job. It pays my bills.
I get to teach at G-town, and next semester I'm even scheduled for two classes. Here's to the start of me slowly weaseling my way into a full-time position...(cross your fingers, please!)
I'm married to the most patient, understanding, and generally considerate person I've ever met.
My parents.
My kitchen is huge. And our apartment is reasonably priced in a great neighborhood close to everything.
I live closer to my family and can easily go home and visit.
I have some of the best friends in the world who, even though they're far away, are still my best friends.
I live in one of the most beautiful, historic, lively cities in the US. There's always an adventure waiting.
I get to eat delicious and healthy food every day.
Democracy.
My body is strong and healthy (knock on wood, this is not an invitation to tempt fate).
I have health insurance.
Sweet potatoes.
I get to travel.
I live in a country where it's ok for my Muslim co-workers to take time out of their day for prayers, and I can leave for Christmas or Easter.
Sisters.
I finally found an armchair for my living room which is perfect for rainy afternoons and a book.
I work in a multi-cultural environment and learn about faraway places every day.
Saffron, cinnamon, cloves, rosemary, garlic, lemon, chocolate, thyme, vanilla...
Harry Potter and my secret books. Let's be honest- really all books in general.
My in-laws.
Google.
Holidays.

And with that, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.

25 ways to wear a scarf

Watch this. Don't you think this girl is adorable? 

And when you're finished, you can click on a specific style and watch the tutorial in regular speed.

reality check

I have a good imagination. And I'm overly curious (nosy, you say?), so as I pass people on the street, I like to concoct a story of who they are, where they're from, and what they're doing out and about. In my mind, they are unfailingly foreign, speaking a language that I also just happen to speak. I work out an entire conversation in my head, generally beginning with a look of desperation in their eyes, begging me to say something in a friendly tongue, and ending with me helping them on their way in perfectly communicable (but not perfect- I'm not that conceited even in my day dreams) Russian or German or Italian or wherever I decide they should be from. I am never nervous or bashful speaking their language; my grammar is correct and my accent decent. And best of all, my words do not fail me.

Enter reality. Let me replay a recent conversation T-rav and I had at the Russian Cultural Center:

We walk into the building on a Saturday afternoon. The door is open and there's a very-Russian looking guy (skinny, round face with angular features, thin hair) standing in the middle of a room that would make a better ballroom than space for a receptionist's desk. Trav says hello and asks about language classes. The Russian guy says something very fast in Russian. Ooo, I think I caught something about them not working. But how can I be sure...we stand there awkwardly. Trav simplifies his request in slow and basic English. The Russian looks bewildered and slightly irked. We ask him if he speaks English. Obviously not. So then, we think, we'll switch to Russian! Pause. What were those words I used to know? Trav and I stand there and look at each other and stare at the Russian and the Russian stares at us. I switch to staring at the floor. I notice that there are several pieces of paper blowing around on the ballroom's wooden floor. It would look quite nice if they refinished it. I'd like to put up a mirror and dance a jig. If the Russian weren't there, that is. Damn. All I can remember is "I want to see your rubber boots." I suck. We continue staring. Finally I blurt out Russian class in Russian. A light turns on in the Russian's eyes and he starts talking on the phone in rapid Russian. Ah, it's the head of the Cultural Center. We find out what we need to know and give the Russian back his phone. We manage to mumble a Russian thank you on our way out.

And that is the difference between my dreams and reality.

random

Today is 11/11/11. It seems significant somehow. You decide.

Editing page after page after page of textbook makes me want to stab my eyes out. Unfortunately for me, editing is all I've been doing lately. Which is why I've been checking facebook incessantly, reading loads of blogs/websites/news articles, and posting a bit more often than usual. Anything to distract...

When I was a freshman in college, I was never cold. I walked around campus in the middle of winter late at night in jeans, a sweater, hat, and gloves, and was almost never cold. I'm now freezing 95% of the time no matter what I wear. Maybe it's because I'm getting old.

T-rav and I have been eagerly engaged in a month-long Prison Break marathon. We finished the last episode last night. I feel as though it has left a small hole in my heart.

Thanksgiving is less than 2 weeks away. It can't come soon enough.

impulse buy

Yesterday our sturdy hp laptop of 6 years finally went kaput. Because it kindly alerted us to its imminent demise by randomly freezing up, shutting down, and beeping sorrowfully during the previous week, there was no meltdown from me like there could have been without proper mental preparation. Just acceptance and a tinge of sadness. It has been with me for a long time through master's thesis, resumes, lesson plans, UVU presentations, and a second bachelor's for T-rav.

But this tinge of sadness wasn't enough to keep me from buying a new one right away. As in less than 1 hour after we played a requiem for our old one, we were on our new laptop, checking email and reading the news as if we'd had it for years. And the best part: it cost us less that $400 thanks to some killer deals at Staples. Impulse buy? Maybe. But you can't really go wrong with a laptop that is twice the computer you had before at a fraction of the price.

my secret stash

I have a secret stash of books. Books that I keep hidden in a box or on a separate shelf away from prying eyes that I'm a little (ok sometimes a lot) ashamed to admit that I love.

No, they're not dirty romance novels. What kind of girl do you think I am?

They're fantasy novels. And they're not that well-written and the story isn't so unoriginal (thanks, Tolkein for inspiring a generation of plagiarists writers) but I can't help myself. I've loved them since my tween years. And every so often I have the urge to read them again. All 12 of them (and some 6000 pages).

Which brings me to my current dilemma: there are so many books I'm longing to read. I have 4 on hold at the library, several on my shelf just waiting to be picked up, a queue on my kindle, and dozens waiting for purchase on my amazon list. It doesn't make sense to me to waste my time reading silly books that I've read, literally, dozens of times. But sometimes I just need to. And they never get old, no matter how many times I read them.

So tell me. What can you read without ever growing tired of it?

(Do you like how I have neatly avoided mentioning the title of these hidden books?)

a different Halloween perspective

One of my Afghan coworkers today was asking me about Halloween. Well, mostly he just wanted to know why I didn't have treats for him today since it was "Halloween weekend" (yes, that man can EAT). Here's about how our conversation went:

Me: Are you planning to dress up or go to any parties?
Him: No, probably not. I'll go like this [wearing jeans and a fleece jacket)
Me: What? Why? Have you ever celebrated Halloween? Gone to any haunted houses or anything?
Him: No...well, I almost went one time last year, but then I didn't.
Me: Why not? Haunted houses are fun!
Him: Well, I've seen real dead bodies and watched people die, so fake ones don't scare me. In the village where I grew up, there were a bunch of houses down the street that exploded with the people still in them. I used to walk past those houses late at night by myself when I was a kid. And I played hide-and-seek in the basement with the windows nailed shut. I even followed a ghost once, but it got away from me.  Once you've seen the real thing, the fake ones just aren't scary.
Me: [blank stare]

What do you say to that?

mansplaining

My new favorite word (T-rav, don't you wish you had never sent me that link?)
to mansplain: 

1- to delight in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation 

2- To explain in a patronizing manner, assuming total ignorance on the part of those listening. The mansplainer is often shocked and hurt when their mansplanation is not taken as absolute fact, criticized or even rejected altogether

(from urbandictionary.com)

Now just to be clear, mainsplaining isn't just explaining something while being male (though for some it seems to be). It's when a male tells a female how to do something she already knows how to do, or how she is wrong about something she is actually right about, or miscellaneous and inaccurate "facts" about something she knows quite a lot more about than he does. 

I also recognize that many men, and women, for that matter, are know-it-alls by nature. They'll condescendingly explain things to men, women, children, dogs, cats, whoever will listen. And some people go in to teacher mode when talking about something they know about (I'm sure I occasionally do this when discussing English. But at least I actually know something about it). It happens.  

Off the top of my head, I can think of about five or six of my friends/acquaintances/co-workers who can't talk about a topic without mansplaining. I've experienced plenty of linguistically related mansplaining (some of them seem to think that speaking a second language or living in a foreign country somehow makes them an expert on grammar, semantics, phonology, or language history)--a science or math or engineering major telling me all about something I've spent 6 years formally studying (and many more informally). And of course, the mansplainer was always wrong. But much more often I have to endure mansplaining related to women and their roles, their feelings, and, worst of all, what they can/can't or should/shouldn't do. 

Naturally, it infuriates me and my reaction is instantly prickly. I really hate being told what to do, but I especially hate it from a mansplainer. What gives him the right to tell me what I can do, how I really feel about something or how he's sure I'll feel when I get there, where I can go, etc. 

When I take a step back and think about this logically, I realize that many of these guys may not realize that they're coming off in such a condescending or overbearing way. They may not even be particularly chauvinistic at heart. But that doesn't really make it any less irritating. 

So my questions for you are: do you know a mansplainer? If you do, what does he mansplain about? And how do you respond? 

My Weekend

This was the first weekend in, well, weeks, that we haven't had people visiting, been visiting people, or had good weather. So the natural thing to do was hop in the car and drive west, west into the mountains of the east: the Blue Ridge mountains. We spent the afternoon hiking through unspeakably beautiful hillsides.

We went through a town called Waterlick. If this grocery store hadn't been closed, I would have shopped there. 

Hurrah for the self-timer on my camera. Its one redeeming quality.

  I think we're going to go back next weekend.

How's your autumn coming along?

What does English sound like?

Want to know what English sounds like? I think this (rather strange) video does an excellent job with their fake English...all the right sounds, plenty of real words, nonsensical word order. What do you think?

version 3.0

In my mind I can categorize myself into 2 versions.

Version 1: shy. introverted. somewhat timid.
Version 2: friendly. opinionated. bossy. adventurous.

My family is much more familiar with version 2. And as the oldest child in the family, I feel confident declaring that it is not my fault that I'm bossy. Can I help it if I had a lot of responsibility and decisions put upon me as first-born? Nope. Not my fault. Sorry, siblings.

When I wasn't at home, I was almost always version 1. I hated talking at school and loathed being called on to answer questions because then everyone would stare at me (they really wouldn't--what 9-year-old listens to much of anything in the classroom. But I thought they would stare at me. Especially if I said the wrong thing. Oh the horror!). I had some friends, but was far from "miss popularity." I hated being labeled as "quiet" like it was a bad thing. What's so bad about being quiet? I knew in my heart that I was NOT quiet, not really, but on the outside, that's what people saw.

Version 2 emerged as people got to know me. I didn't hesitate to shout down any of the rotten little boys on the playground, and I think most of my friends thought of me as much more adventurous and extroverted than they were. Sassy, even. But it took time and effort to get to that point.

Which brings us to the present day. When I meet new people, potential friends possibly, I am often still version 1. I might feel uncomfortable conversing, maybe even have a hint of a blush whenever the conversation turns toward me. Sometimes I'm just fine, extroverted even, but I have to be in the right mood, drunk with some kind of energy and excitement. I wish I could merge my two selves into one better version that doesn't feel shy, but doesn't mind still being introverted. But it's easier said than done, I guess.

I wonder if any of you feel this way. Which is the better self? I know, I know. The answer is probably neither. I should embrace my selves and be comfortable with who I am! Also easier said than done. ;)

On saucing

Applesauce is among the five or so foods I could live on continuously if they didn't kill me first (bread, cheese, gelato, nutella, apple-related anything). But not just any applesauce. My grandma's applesauce. Because, you see, it's better than any I've ever had before. Yes, ever ever. Because my Grandma is The. Best. Cook. And even though she has Alzheimer's and needs to be occasionally reminded of what to do next, she's still the best. 

First you take Cortland apples and core and slice them, a step which we were able to skip because we're friends with an apple-product-factory owner. Then you throw them in a pot with a teensy bit of water and bring them to a nice sturdy simmer, cooking until they turn to mush. You must stir and watch very carefully not to burn them. It helps to have a very lovely grandma watching over things to inspect the progress.

Only stop for a picture when you're ready to take the apples off the heat. Otherwise Grandma will scold you. Nicely, of course. Next pour the mushed apples into a press that spits out the peels and other unsavory bits on one side and sploosoms out the sauce on the other. 

Dump the sauce in a bowl with a bit of sugar and stir. Then divide it into jars, wipe down the mouth of the jar, and boil the heck out of them until sealed. And I almost forgot the most important part: reserve a jar to eat right away, slightly warm is best.

Just attended my first G-town EFL potluck. Which included a wild dance party. Boys only. Girls watched from the sidelines. One brave American girl was dragged into the fray.

I was a little jealous.

headscarf fashion

If I close the door in my classroom at Georgetown, I can imagine that I'm teaching somewhere in the Middle East. There are a few Spanish speakers, a token Brazilian, and one lone Korean (how I miss my Koreans!), but half of the faces that stare up at me are partially covered in a lovely array of headscarves. It's a fashion show every day.

There's the beautiful B, with her brown and bright pink flowered scarf that often slips out and requires tucking several times per class. Make-up perfect, lips a bright shade of pink. There's A, wearing an abaya (the robe or cloak-like cover than some women in the Saudi area wear), always demure and feminine in light blue. My smartest student, S, alternates between a bright pink and white flowered scarf and one of multi-colors. Like A, O also sports an abaya and wears a reserved color scarf, but her sparkly purple tennis shoes give her bright personality away. And R, who wasn't blessed with great beauty, still looks stunning with a bright blue scarf.

I wish I could show you pictures.

I love seeing how personalities are revealed in the way these girls wear their scarves. And I love the little peek of fashion hidden underneath the abayas (jeans, dress pants, sweatpants! bright purple tights). And sometimes I see a shadow of a hairstyle in a ponytail bump or thick piece of bang that drops out from under the scarf. But I long to see what they look like beneath their scarves. I certainly look different with my hair hidden...are they prettier? The same? Do they have curly hair? Wavy? Wild hair cuts? Would removing the headscarf change the way they behave? Would it bring out a different part of their personality?

Maybe one day I'll declare a "girls-only" class and then I'll get to see.

sing we now

I used to sing. At BYU, I was in women's chorus for 2 (or 3? M, help, I can't remember!) years, and then I joined the awesome community choir called the Christmas Chorus. It's a women's choir and only meets for Christmas music and Benjamin Britten's Ceremony of Carols. We sing in the chapel by the state mental hospital in Provo (yes, in the picture on the left. If you look really close, you might be able to see me in the back middle). We wear gynormous homemade green bag skirts and white blouses with red holly/ivy vests that are made for women significantly more endowed in the bust than I am. Sometimes we are great and sometimes we are...less than great. But it is always fun.

And now I live far away and have no choir in which to sing. This makes me sad. So this morning I decided to look up some local choirs and see if anything tickled my fancy. And of course I found lots of great choirs--it is DC, after all. But the more I looked, the more I saw the word "audition" lurking about.

Audition.

Audition.

AUDITION!

And it fills my heart with terror.

Not that I expected anything different. Of course I would need to audition to get into a choir. Especially a really great one that sings motets and cantatas all the time. But auditions and I have never really gotten along.

It started back in 6th grade when I realized that the 350-pound, loud talking, poofy-haired, abrasive/terrifying teacher named Ms. Pagano was also the drama teacher. There was no way in hell I was going to try out for anything in front of that woman. She might as well be Mrs. Trunchbull, thought I. And then freshman year I went to a Women's Chorus audition high on lortab and other various painkillers for the chronic migraines I'd been having. What I can remember of that audition (which isn't much) is hazy at best. Let's just say it went less than desired.

But the mere thought of auditioning for something literally makes me shake with dread (no really. My hands will start shaking any minute now). I've never been very confident singing alone in front of others (unless those others are family, close friends, or Kathleen Battle and Frederica von Stade or Renee Flemming, who won't talk back no matter how I sound). I hate solos. I hate auditions. Something weird happens when I'm forced to perform on command. My voice suddenly isn't mine and I realize everyone is listening to me and I think I sound like a dying cat and I panic. And then I lose my notes and my concentration and it's a disaster from then on. Luckily I've been able to avoid this situation most of my life by just avoiding auditions in general...but I'm not sure how to get around it this time.

Maybe I should try hypnosis.

oh to age with grace

Last night I discovered a box of old pictures without a place. They're the kind that aren't good or interesting enough to put into a photo album, but you still don't have the heart to throw them out. They're memories of freshman year days, roommates, early adventures with T-rav. And after a few minutes of happily reminiscing, I decided two things:

1- My awkward years went well beyond the typical "teenage" awkwardness. I wish someone would have mentioned a few things to me at some point...You try looking unkempt and disheveled (in a non-cute kind of way) until the age of 25 and see how you feel about yourself. (With a few anomalous exceptions, of course; every once in a while a glimmer of the self that I know now appeared).

2- I'm getting old. Not that I look old yet--people still regularly accuse me of being barely old enough to be a college freshman--but I do look older than than I did when I got married. And that scares me a little.

Yes, yes, I realize this is normal. There's no escaping age. And I'm rather relieved that I no longer look 14. But the fact that I can identify some stark differences in how I look now and then alarms me, especially as 30 is looming in the not-so-distant future. It's starting to scare me a little. I don't want to get old. I don't want to look old (really, who does?).

I've been chastised plenty of times by old and young people about my dismay of getting older. I've been told I should embrace the progression of life. Who wants to stay 28 forever, they say. But in all honesty, part of me kind of does. I fear looking old and losing the youthfulness that I've had for so long.

Now I realize that feeling this way is: 1) a sign of my vanity (which I try IN VAIN to get rid of, and generally fail miserably). It's true: I'm both vain and self-conscious; and 2) immature and silly. I know I'm silly to feel this way and I'm actually surprised to be confessing this to you (or maybe I'm just infinitely bored). But I'm eager to hear your advice/feelings on the matter. So please advise me.

books

I used to collect things when I was a kid. Leaves. Rocks. Shells. Thimbles from places I visited. Pine cones. Cool sticks. Books. You name it. I didn't always keep my treasures, but I was seriously attached to whatever it was I was collecting at the time. Then after a while, I'd get sick of them (or I'd realize it was weird to keep a twig lying around) and I'd throw them back into the woods or even the trash.

I hadn't thought of it this way before, but I guess I now collect books. Or I try to. When we decided to move to DC last winter, I had to put a hold on my book buying because who knew how tiny of a place we would live in? I still snuck a few in here and there, but not as many as usual. And now we have a place to live, and it's not tiny, but definitely not well-equipped for 4 1/2 large shelves of books. And I've found myself wondering if I can part with some, or even all, of our book collection...

...I just can't do it.

The more I think about it, the more unthinkable it becomes. Which ones do I choose? How do I narrow down my selection when I love every single one of them? I can't possibly get rid of so many good old friends.

When I try to think rationally (which is, admittedly, a bit difficult for me where books are considered), I must ask myself if it is really logical to cart around such a heavy and cumbersome collection. And then the answer is generally a hearty NO. Our moving truck was literally 1/3 books/shelves (1/4 kitchen things, 1/4 camping things, and the rest miscellaneous). We could have gotten a smaller truck and our apartment would definitely be roomier without them. I suppose I could leave them in storage, but what's the point of having books if you can never see, find, or read them?

At this point, we're definitely going to keep all our books; they're already unpacked and have a place. But I wonder what to do the next time we move. What then, I say?

Part of this may be my compulsion to purge my house of all unnecessary things. I hate clutter and I usually throw things out to the point that I regret it later (the perfect Alice in Wonderland costume-dress from DI comes to mind every Halloween since 2002). I hate when people see my things and blurt out "Wow! You have a lot of stuff!" I don't have stuff, thank you. I have lots and lots of books. And quite a few kitchen things that make tasty food that I plan to feed you.

I'd like to be able to pack up and move at a moment's notice and just leave everything I own behind. If I were to become a vagabond and travel around the world or just move overseas like I'm always hoping, I'd be ok with storing my books for a while. Maybe I'll become detached enough to get rid of them. Maybe I'll get to that point one day. But right now, they're just too close to my heart.

a rant

I'm going to rant, so if any of the 5 of you who read my pitiful blog have something better to do, which I'm sure you do, don't bother reading this post.

Working in an office is a waste of one's life. And a waste of company time. Between the smoke breaks, bathroom breaks, water breaks, coffee breaks, meetings, "consultations" (read: chatting) with coworkers, and, of course, lunch, why bother coming in to work at all? Imagine how productive we could be if we actually worked during work? And for those of us who do work, and can do it without the hours of distractions, what are we to do with our remaining 6 hours of the day when we finish our task? Facebook? Amuse ourselves by googling things like "British people are..." or "best hair dryers for frizz" or write a ranting blog about their dull job.

I hate having a client whose every whim I have to satisfy. Especially when one of those clients is a complete and utter imbecile. Trite. Asinine. Exasperating. And possibly a trollop. Don't people realize that my way really will be better? Basically I despise working for someone. It's one thing to be a teacher and have a department chair to answer to. It's another thing entirely have a project manager, department manager, and client. I'm a free spirit. I don't want a job where I have to answer to so authority figures. I hate authority.

It's a damn good thing I won't be doing this forever.

On another note, I'm sick of the rain (4 days without a break) because my umbrella is broken and they're sold out everywhere so I can't buy a new one and my rain boots are in the moving truck coming across the country as I type.

How's that for whiny?

Good news indeed.

On Greek yogurt and other such fads

As a general rule I tend to scorn fads. I like to imagine myself above the fad, or pre-fad; I liked it before it became a fad!! I definitely don't claim to start the fad--ha! Me! Start a fad! But I imagine that I liked it before it was cool. Like having a scooter.. Or eating Greek yogurt. I've been wildly in love with Greek yogurt for years. It's only recently that I've actually been able to afford it much less easily find it. It used to be that if I wanted Greek yogurt, it could only be found in plain form, was very expensive (compared to other yogurts, and I'm a known cheapo), and generally required me driving to 2 stores. Now it's everywhere. On commercials, in magazine adds, in my fridge at work. All the "cool" people are eating it.

I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I like to imagine that it's my thing, something that sets me apart. If everyone else is doing it, I become like everyone else (the horror!). But on the other hand, when things like this become popular, it often means they get cheaper (hurrah for competing brands!). They're more accessible. They come in a greater variety. So really it's quite beneficial.

And it's not like I don't want to share the greatness. I would encourage everyone I know to get a scooter. Well, almost everyone. And of course Greek yogurt is delicious, so please, go buy some. Eat it. Enjoy. I just have to get ride of this prideful-possibly-slightly-superior-feeling whenever I think about how I was first or at least early on in the fad. It's just silly.

grow the economy

Last night I watched part of the Republican Presidential Debates (which was, by the way, significantly more entertaining than any political debate I've seen in a while). And aside from some of the crazier ideas tossed about, I found one thing quite vexing.

Grow the economy.

Come again?

I swear I heard well over a dozen instances of candidates promising to grow the economy (at least it felt like at least that many). Does that grate on the ears of anybody else?

I realize this is not a new phrase, at least in my lifetime. Apparently, grow the economy became popular after one of Bill Clinton's presidential election speeches in 1992. Politicians and businessmen heard the phrase and ran with it. It figures they'd choose one of the most awkward sounding phrases as a catchphrase for politicians and economists for the next 20 years.

What bothers me is not that it's grammatically incorrect--grow can be an intransitive verb (does not need an object) as in these examples: the tree grows, children grow, his head is growing. And it can be a transitive verb (can take an object), so we can say grow potatoes, grow corn or grow a beard. Then why not grow the economy?

Well, first of all, and obviously most importantly, because I think it sounds dreadful and unnatural. But that's just me.

Secondly, the most common uses of grow in Modern English (in transitive or intransitive forms) refer to raising or increasing a living thing (a seed into a plant or a child or a body part or a tree becoming taller). The OED has one instance, supposedly obsolete, from 1481 of grow being used in the sense of increasing or expanding a non-living thing: When David had reigned 7 years in Hebron he grew and amended much this city (in my Modern English).

So yes, I suppose since grow can be both transitive and intransitive and can refer to living and non-living entities, one could argue that grow the economy is technically correct. But is it pretty? Hardly. Am I fighting a losing battle? Quite probably. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

G-town

I belong on a campus. High school, community college, university. It doesn't matter. When I set foot into the academic world, my heart does a little pitter patter reserved only for the scent of autumn, the sight of awkward freshmen schlepping their bags behind them while peering furtively at their course schedule, the secluded corner benches where one can read or people watch, depending on how interesting your textbooks are.

I thought that this year would be the first since...well, since the age of 3 (I started kindergarten at 4), that I wouldn't be starting school with the rest of academia. What would life be like not on a school schedule? How would I count my days, if not by semesters, midterms and school holidays? To be quite honest, I was dreading it.

And then I got an email that made everything ok. The lovely ladies at the EFL program at Georgetown actually did have a desperate need for a teacher in the fall, and I happened to be desperate for a class. Voila! Problem solved.

So now I'm working more than I really wanted (my slightly dull full time job + 1 class), but happily get to dally with fellow lecturers, professors, and, of course students.

School starts in a little less than 3 weeks. I'm a little excited.

An embassy event--Moroccan style

Last night was the 12th anniversary of His Majesty King Mohammed VI of Morocco's ascension to the throne. I believe it is also known as National Day in Morocco. Naturally, the Moroccan embassy here threw a huge party and then kindly invited all the Congressmen in Washington. Including their staff. Which meant that T-rav scored an invite. Huzzah!

This was my very first time going to any important event where there are important people (which we are not) and nice clothes (which I do not have) and well-coiffed hair (which definitely does not describe me). And as no one in T-rav's office could/cared to go, we also didn't know a soul there. Intimidating? Yes.

At times (ok, most times) I feel like the soul of awkwardness. In a situation where "networking" is just what you do and small talk is what you say, I am generally mystified. How does one start and carry on a conversation with a perfect stranger? I feel the anxiety creeping over me just thinking about it. But I really wanted to go and see how the Moroccans threw a party, so on went my only black dress and my 4-inch heels, a tidge of eye liner and some subtle lip tint, and once my hair was pulled back in an unsatisfactory manner, we were ready (I've learned that I really really need to learn how to do something besides a ponytail or braid with my hair).

I walked 4 big DC blocks in those 4-inch heels. Very very slowly. And then we were there and there were tons of people dressed about the same--some better, some worse--as I was, and there was Moroccon music and fantastic architecture, and Americans dressed up in traditional Middle Eastern garb, and many-starred generals from almost anywhere, and other foreigners...and even a few young and slightly awkward looking peeps like ourselves. But most importantly, there was food. Spinach, Lentils, couscous, meatballs, seafood-phyllo pie, tomato salad, and bread. Delicious!

We did our best to try to talk to people. We met a very short American man who is moving to Abu Dhabi. And we met Anastasia and Peter--a young Russian girl working on her MA at American University, and Peter, a really really old ex-foreign service officer who, according to Anastasia, has a collection of young foreign girls he takes to various events. Awesome.

All in all, I'm glad we went. I did feel awkward a good portion of the time (what does one do with one's hands in a nice dress?! And is it acceptable to stuff those hands in pockets if the dress happens to have pockets? What's the best way to start a conversation with a perfect stranger who may or may not speak English?). I learned I need to work on my small talk skills and that everyone in DC carries business cards even if they're just a lowly student. And a bit of awkwardness is worth the people-watching and free food.

working for the weekend

I sneak out of the door every day at work terrified that someone is going to stop me and make me stay another 10 minutes. I don't feel safe until I'm out of the elevator and past the little Korean-run convenience store (everything from gift cards to laundry soap and an ATM!). Don't get me wrong- I like my job. It's interesting and new and I work with some fascinating Afghan people. I've learned more about Afghanistan and the languages spoken there in the past 3 weeks than I ever knew before.

But. I'm now working in the "corporate" world. I go in around 8 and I'm expected to stay a full 8 hours, with time taken out for a lunch break of course. But many days I don't really have enough work to fill my time. Sometimes I do. But there are plenty of days that I'm dragging my feet on some assignment just to make sure I'm not done too fast and left with time to twiddle my thumbs. Or delete emails from my work inbox. Or shuffle papers around my desk. Because I don't really want to be one of those people who spend their time at work on facebook or writing blogs. But what am I to do when I'm already 3 weeks ahead of schedule?

So I've decided that I should be allowed to do my work, finish my task, and go home when I'm done. In a perfect world, my salary would be the same, but I would be a whole lot more productive because I wouldn't have to waste time at work trying to look busy. I could go home and do something else, and maybe I wouldn't long for the weekend quite as much as I do now. Ah, what a dream that would be! Don't you think it's a good idea?

English English English

I love the English language. But I haven't always felt this way. There have been times I've felt a tidge of "white guilt" for speaking it. Sometimes I hate English for being a killer language and running nice little tribal languages and regional dialects right out of existence (not that English is alone in this- Russian, Spanish, Chinese, Portuguese, and countless others are guilty of the same). Sometimes it's annoying to teach because there are so many dang exceptions to every rule. But that's what makes it interesting. Because when it really comes down to it, I LOVE English. And of the many many things I love about it (maybe I'll get into more detail about that when I'm feeling particularly nerdy), but I especially love its variety.

I've always been very conscious of the way I speak. Even as an elementary school student, I paid attention to how my words sounded. I aimed for a neutral accent rather than the strong upstate New York dialect of my peers; I even made fun of my poor father for saying "melk" instead of milk or "pellow" for pillow. I loved listening to actors with British accents, and I spent a good deal of time each summer talking to my best friend Jay like a Brit in word choice and accent (or so we thought). When I went off to college, I was suddenly surrounded by a new dialect group, mostly Utah based, which I deemed again undesirable. For myself at least. My eastern dialect was a bit more interesting now, and I gave in, at least to some features like to the strong a in "canal" or "pal."

Maybe because I myself tried to "train" my dialect, it doesn't surprised me when I hear about people studying to get rid of their accent. But it does make me kind of sad, when, for instance, a charming or unique dialect is viewed as less desirable, and it consequently declines in use. This article here talks about people in Boston who take classes to learn Standard American English. But it breaks my heart a little. I don't want people to sound the same! I want them to sound different! Diversity in language is what makes it interesting. Even though I personally don't want to sound like I'm from Utah, I'm quite fond of the dialect. It makes people sound friendly and approachable. English wouldn't be the same without it.

But all of this has a point. I'm just wondering if there are any particular dialects (or accents, if you prefer to think of it that way) that you love or hate. If you could choose to sound like you're from a particular place, where would it be? Or where would you hate to sound like you belong?

New things

I live in a new (and old) city. I have a new job. I'm meeting new people at church, in the neighborhood, and at work. I have a new dress code. There's a new style to my hair: frizz. There's a new Wegman's far from my new house, but not so far I can't make up reasons to go there. I'm giving my blog a new design. So many new things...

And thus far, these new changes have been pretty good. I think I'm going to like my new job (I'm a curriculum developer for a language company that does contract work for clients such as the US military or State Department. Basically, I'm writing textbooks for Dari and Pashto- both spoken in Afghanistan- with the assistance of people who actually speak those languages). My apartment is still kind of ghetto, but we'll only be in this place for another month and a half. Things are looking up for now.

I still miss all of you I left behind. But it's good to be doing something new.

Saying goodbye

I love change. Except for when I hate it. Like when I realize that moving to DC means I won't actually get to see my friends anymore. And I'll have to make some new friends. Or like when I realize that the idea of a new job is awesome, but actually starting a new job is something closer to terrifying. Change is good. I spend my time wishing for change. And then it scares the crap out of me when it actually happens.

I also hate saying goodbye. Like most of the unpleasant things in life, when confronted with saying goodbye, my preferred method of coping is avoidance. Can't I just sneak off to DC without seeing anyone "one last time?" How do you say goodbye to someone you truly care about, but most probably will never see again in your life? "Email me" seems a little shallow. And what about the person who starts to weep while you sit there awkwardly trying not to join her, racking your brain for something meaningful to say. Pat her gently on the shoulder? This is not to mention those who are actually closest to you.

There's a lovely poem I found in one of my ESL textbooks several years ago. I posted it once upon a time in a moment of despair when Zillah was leaving us to go off and do her doctorate somewhere far away. Although a little more serious than simply moving across country, yt seems appropriate yet again.

There is No Word for Goodbye
by Mary Tall Mountain

Sokoya,* I said, looking through
the net of wrinkles into
wise black pools of her eyes.

What do you say in Athabaskan
when you leave each other?
What is the word
for goodbye?

A shade of feeling rippled
the wind-tanned skin
Ah, nothing, she said,
watching the river flash.

She looked at me close.
We just say, Tlaa. That means,
See you.
We never leave ecah other.
When does your mouth
say goodbye to your heart?

She touched me light
as a bluebell.
You forget when you leave us,
you're so small then.
We don't use that word.

We always think you're coming back,
but if you don't,
we'll see you some place else.
You understand.
There is no word for goodbye.

*Sokoya- maternal aunt (in Athabaskan, a Native American language)

kicking against the wall

I've been really busy lately. Sometimes busy in a good way- visiting friends, going to dance class, cooking, frantically trying to finish the rest of the seasons of Battlestar Galactica with Phin- but mostly I've been busy in the irritating way - teaching, grading, preparing for classes, and other various unpleasant obligations I simply can't avoid. Normally I wouldn't mind my responsibilities. But with just barely more than a week left in Utah, I've been contemplating throwing responsibility to the wind. The other option is throwing a temper tantrum.

As a child, whenever I was naughty, my parents would make me stand in the corner or sit on a stool. All I had to do was be quiet for x number of minutes. I HATED it. Hated it with more passion than the normal child hates being disciplined. Instead of being quiet as quickly as possible so I could get out of the corner as quickly as possible, I would scream and kick the wall (because that was much wiser than kicking one's parents) for being forced to do what I didn't want to do. I wasn't quite rebellious enough defy my parents and walk away which meant I was torn with inner conflict- every inch of me longed to move, but I realized the punishment would be much more severe if I did. So I stayed and screamed with rage and frustration that I had to stay there.

That's kind of how I've been feeling about a lot of things the past couple of weeks.

don't "sister" me

I received an email from the BYU music department today. This is what was attached at the bottom.

Sister Hall Dr. Staheli Sister Applonie

Please note the titles of the respective conductors. Note that the one male in the group is graced with the noble title of "Dr" while the women retain their submissive "sister" title. At least that's how I see it. Sister is what you call someone at church. Or your actual sister. You don't, or shouldn't, refer to a woman in an academic setting as sister. How often do you ever hear people call their male professors "brother" (with the exception of religion classes)?

Please admire "Sister" Hall's academic achievements:

M.M., Choral Conducting, Brigham Young University, 1993.
Postgraduate Music Teacher's Certificate, London University, England, 1978
B.M., Royal Academy of Music, London, England, 1977.
Associate of the London College of Music (piano), London, England, 1977.
Licentiate of the Royal Academy of Music (singing), London, England, 1976.

And now "Sister" Applonie:

M.M. Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1990
B.M. (cum laude) Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1984
Kodaly Certification, Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, 1997

And now "Dr" Staheli:

D.M.A., Choral Music, University of Southern California, 1977.
M.M., Choral Music, University of Southern California, 1973.
B.A., Magna Cum Laude, Piano Performance and Music Theory, including emphasis in voice, Brigham Young University, 1972.

Yes, the ladies are both lacking in doctoral status. But they both have a wealth of experience and certification deserving of recognition higher than sister. Like maybe their names. Don't you think?

Cruisin' the Mediterranean

I feel a little spoiled: the past 2.5 weeks I spent with my parents, both sets of grandparents, and youngest sister on a cruise of the Mediterranean. And let me tell you, it was pretty awesome. While cruising may not be for the overactive or fly by the seat of your pants type (and while I was often panged with guilt at the luxurious treatment I received but didn't feel I deserved), it's certainly a fun way to get a brief introduction to some new parts of the world. Here's as short a recap as I can manage.

Start: Barcelona, Spain. We spent a few days here before the cruise- and might I add that aside from Catalan, the local language, the Spanish spoken in Barcelona is not really Spanish. They just pretend it is- and realized that Barcelona is fantastic and huge and has way too many things to see. I must go back. Oh, and Gaudi's cathedral really is as awesome and eclectic as I had always thought. And now I really want to learn Catalan.

Stop #2: Villfranche, France (just outside of Nice). Lovely, but unfortunately, we were there on a Sunday, which apparently meant that all shops be closed. We observed the rocky beach, took in the beautiful scenery, and had some dang good chocolate pastries.

Stop #3: Livorno, Italy (destination Pisa and Florence- there's not a whole lot to see in Livorno). I finally got around to seeing the leaning tower, and to my surprise, it actually was worth the trip. How it leans! Also. I ADORE Florence.

Stop #4: Civitavecchia, Italy (destination Rome). Is 3 cups of gelato in one day too many? Having a guided tour through the Roman Forum made it much more interesting than wandering through rubble on your own (which is what we did last time). I can also assure you that the Vatican is still there, and just as awe-inspiring as ever.

Stop #5: Athens, Greece. The Acropolis really is worth seeing. We were lucky enough to be the very first tour group there in the very early morning. I recommend it. Also. I love Greek food (cucumber salad and baklava and pitas, oh my!), but Athens itself isn't much to rave about. We took a drive to the southern most point of Europe to see more rubble in temple form. Worth the drive, I'd s

ay.

Stop #6: Kusadasi, Turkey. Although I may be biased because I love all things remotely Islamic, Turkey was one of my favorites. We saw the stunning ruins of Ephesus (think Ephesians from the Bible), bought lots of touristy things (including my parents and grandparents buying several expensive and beautiful rugs), ate tasty Turkish food, declined several passionate proposals, and desperately wished for more time to roam around.

Stop #6: Santorini, Greece. This is was the entire reason my mom decided to book this cruise. I was initially a bit skeptical, but it turned out to be every bit as beautiful as momma had hoped. My dad and I scaled the 800 or so wide steps up the backside of the volcano from port to town, dodging donkeys as we went. If I had money to spare, I mean a lot of money, I would definitely rent a cliff-side room with a view for a week or two. Maybe one day.

Stop #6: Salerno, Italy (destination Vesuvius and Pompei- basically Naples). I need to live here. Really. Truly. I won't survive life if I don't get to spend at least a year on the Amalfi coast. I didn't expect it, but this area of Italy was probably the most gorgeous part of the country I've seen yet. We hiked to the top of Mt. Vesuvius, observed the steam pouring out of the still-active-and-possibly-about-to-blow-any-day volcano, nearly froze in the strong winds and 40 degree temperatures (our cruise weather forecaster lied to us), and walked around the streets of Pompei, which, to quote my grandfather, "was the most impressive bunch of rubble I've ever seen!" It's shockingly well preserved; as you walk around it looks and feels like a real town. Except it was built over 2000 years ago. Another reason to live in Naples: their pizza is the best thing I've ever tasted.

In between some of the stops, we had 4 days of sailing at sea, during which we spent our time eating, sleeping, lying in the sun, attending special classes in belly dancing (well, some of us did. Can you imagine grandpa swinging his hips?), and chatting. The days at port were busy and long, but when you only have 1 day in a city, you can't spare a minute! I got to spend time with 4 of my grandparents while they're still healthy enough to get around and remember it. Mostly. I got to pretend I was 16 again (no, Kate and I are not twins, but plenty of people thought so), and my parents spoiled me rotten. All in all, a dang good trip. Thanks, parents!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

This country bumpkin (me) did a scary thing today.

I drove around in the District of Columbia, just me and my trusty ole' GPS.

Not impressed? You should be. Let me describe a a typical DC driving scenario.

First of all, your street, even though it's in the "suburbs" has a traffic light on nearly every corner. Just leaving your street takes 4-5 minutes and several red lights. As you pull onto the main street closest to your house, you notice that although there are 4 lanes (2 each way), the road is exceedingly narrow. You pull into the right lane and drive along at 25 mph, which really means around 40. Things are going well until you notice that you're barreling down on a parked car in your lane. You quickly merge left rather than hit the car or slam on the brakes and cause an accident, getting honked at for almost cutting off the guy behind you.

Your heart beating a little faster, you suddenly see that the next traffic light is red, but the intersection is doing something weird with 2 roads intersecting over yours, and you stop uncertainly in between the 2 roads with a prayer in your heart that you won't get smashed. Then there's a patch of construction where all the lines shift; the GPS says to keep left, but the road you need suddenly turns; some roads are one-way, some aren't; some should be and as a car tries to pass you, it nearly scrapes the paint off your car.

When you finally arrive at your destination, your knees are weak, but your car is still in tact and so are you. Your journey has been a success.

Packing.

Packing.

Throwing copious amounts of stuff away.

Pack some more.

Grading, teaching, grading, testing.

Frantically visiting friends.

DC next week to leave Trav behind.

Europe the week after.

Then back to Utah to teach my final semester at UVU.

We're finally leaving.

Molly

Three weeks ago today, my 16-year-old cousin Molly got up in the morning and didn't feel well. She trudged down the stairs to tell her mom that she wanted to stay home from school and was going back to bed. My auntie knew that Molly had been feeling a little off, feverish and such, for the past few days, so she didn't think much about it. Molly went back to bed and slept and slept and slept. And slept.

Sometime in the early afternoon, my aunt went into Molly's room to check on her. She had, after all, been sleeping for more than even the average teenager should sleep. Auntie called her name, shook her, tried to wake her up, to no avail. She was breathing, but not responding. An ambulance was called. Molly was admitted to the hospital and dozens of tests were run. Still nothing.

By Friday morning, things weren't looking so good. Molly's brain had swelled during the night, and it was no longer responding to the tests the doctors were running. The family, hoping for the miracle Molly deserved, called Molly's two older sisters and told them to come back from college right away. But by the time they arrived late Friday night, Molly was brain dead. They kept her breathing long enough for the family to say good bye.

Molly was my younger sister Kate's best friend and like a sister to us. Like a sister in all the ways you have a sister- all the fun, as well as irritations, of a sister. She and Kate used to torture Kristi and me (though I'm sure if you ask them, they would say it was the other way around). They were annoying and loud and giggly and messy and juvenile. They were also adorable and funny and sometimes even sweet. Molly spent half of her time at my house, and Kate spent half of her time at Molly's house. Sometimes when they had slumber parties, I would make them pancakes for breakfast and pretend to be the waiter. They had to call me sir, or I wouldn't respond. When I did reply, it was only in a British accent. Sir didn't speak American.

Molly was one of the wittiest people I ever knew. Sometimes she and T-rav and I would make snarky comments about whoever was hanging around us. We would laugh about little things under our breath and then refuse to reveal their meaning. She understood jokes way beyond her years.

Molly was smart, beautiful, athletic, popular, and a little spoiled, but most of all, and most importantly, she was nice. Everyone who knew her loved her. Over 1000 people came to her calling hours; there were nearly 900 at the funeral, including her entire sophomore class. Everyone talked about how kind and friendly Molly was. She talked to the lonely girl in gym class or always smiled at the nerdy kids. She definitely wasn't perfect. But she was compassionate and thoughtful. And loving.

We don't know why Molly died. It makes me inexpressibly angry that she was taken from us, from Kate, her sisters, and especially from her parents. How do you go on with life when something like this happens? Why did this tragedy happen? I wonder when and if the anger will ever go away. This is the type of tragedy that is better read in a Reader's Digest article and not experienced on your own. It's not supposed to happen.

I know that somehow life will continue, somehow my poor aunt and uncle will carry on, somehow life will regain a sense of normalcy. But we will never forget her.

Molly, I love you.

si, yo hablo

One of the most amusing parts of being an ESL teacher is tricking your students in to thinking you don't speak their language when actually you do. You hear all sorts of things you're not supposed to...like who is at home in bed rather than in class because they stayed up too late playing video games, or who is actually on vacation and not visiting their dying aunt, or who so-and-so is dating, etc. And swear words. It's really quite entertaining.

But the funny thing is, sometimes I make it more than obvious that I understand what they're saying, and they still have no idea. For example, a student might lean over to a friend during class and ask the translation of a word in their native language. But before the friend can reply with the translation, I might supply it for them. The students rarely bat an eyelash; they continue on as if it was perfectly natural that their English speaking teacher could have translated their language.

At some point during nearing the end of the semester, they usually get around to asking me what and how much I speak. If their native language is among the list, there are usually exclamations of shock, excitement, and, quite possibly, dismay: "You mean you understood us all along?"

Yes, yes, I did. Ha!

bountiful baskets

I bought my first share in a food co-op the other day. Here's what $15 got me:

4 tomatoes

3 mangoes from Guatemala in perfect ripeness

3 yellow squash, slightly hail damaged

1 pineapple

1 huge bunch of spinach

5-lbs of yellow (my favorite!) potatoes

10 apples

10 delicious juicy oranges

7 bananas, very green

2 lbs green beans

2 turnips

Here's how it works: you sign up on the website (bountiful baskets) on Monday or Tuesday for a location near your house- and you have to be quick about it because the sites fill up fast- and on Saturday, at a designated time, you go pick up your produce from someone's back yard or business or greenhouse. It's mostly local produce (except for during the winter, when it's Arizona or Mexico local), and organic baskets are also available. ($25/basket). You never know what you're going to get; each week is different. And it's a lot of food.

a rant about a ten-year-old

I have a confession: I've spent the past few weeks grumbling about 3 particular 10-year-olds in my dance class. I complain about them on the way to dance, and then rant about them on the way home. You might be wondering how can a fully grown, mostly adult person could spend her time thinking about and being irritated by someone less than half her age.

Well let me tell you.

Thanks to my current teaching schedule, I get to the studio exactly as dance is about to start or, more likely, a few minutes late. I run in with my bag in hand, ready to rip off my teaching clothes and fling on my dance clothes. It would take me all of 3 minutes. But as I rush in, I notice the lone bathroom is occupied. "Who's in there?" I ask. It's no surprise that it's girl #1, who's been changing for at least 7 minutes. Oh, and did she get to class 10 minutes early? And did she spend her time gossiping with the other girls rather than change? Yes, yes, she did.

I wait by the door while class starts warming up. And I keep waiting. When girl #1 finally gets out and I finish getting changed, I'm well over 10 minutes late. Great. I go join the rest of the class and try to hear the instructions being hollered at us by the teacher- hollered because someone is clomping out some beats with her hard shoes while the rest of us are trying to hear. Oh yes, it's girl #2.

Some of us turn to #2 and tell her to stop. She smirks at us with her beady eyes and jowly face and pauses just until we turn around to listen. The clomping starts again. And when it's time to do our group dance, guess who's in the wrong spot and doing the wrong steps with bad form and terrible posture? Yep, it's #2.

Until this point #3 has been silent, but that's because she's been hiding in the back with her friend. Now that she's in with the rest of the class, the questions start. "Miss Jo, can I be the leader? Miss Jo, can I show everyone the step? Miss Jo, I want to be on the first line! Miss Jo, can I be Harry Potter if she doesn't show up? (this is for our group dance) But if she doesn't show up, can I do her part? I want to be Harry Potter! Miss Jo, she pushed me! Oh, I already know this step; let me be the leader!" All of this wouldn't be so unbearable if it didn't cause a riot among the other dancers. No one wants to let this girl have her way, and for good reason.

At the end of class, my friend and I are discussing what type of solo dress we'd like to buy when #1 walks past and hears the word "dress." She butts into our conversation, spewing forth mindless drivel about the new dress she got and how great she looks in it and how it means she's so advanced and how it will help her win all the medals at the next competition.

My irritation level is rising just thinking about this. And yes, I realize that makes me a very petty person.

winter blues trip #1

Last week was a glorious one for one main reason: I only went to work for 1.5 days. Monday was a holiday and Wednesday we left for a trip to San Diego to visit my brother.

Bro-ter, as I like to call him, was graduating from recruiting school for the marines (much to his dismay- no one really wants to be a recruiter. It's like being a missionary except without any of the spiritual blessings associated with religion and a lot of cold calls and public speaking. Yuck). And since I'd never had the pleasure of visiting a military base, we popped in for the occasion.

Our first night there we stayed on base in "billeting," which is a weird word for fancy barracks for soldiers on a short-term stay or their visiting families. Think dorm room circa 1960. After bro-ter's graduation, we hung around San Diego with him until his flight left. Although I felt a bid morbid doing so with a marine brother, we spent about an hour wandering around a navy cemetery, pristinely located on a peninsula overlooking the bay and Pacific ocean. Beautiful.

The next day the sun finally succumbed to my pleadings and showed its face for a few hours in the afternoon.

It was here that we spent my favorite part of the trip: watching the sea lions and seals sun themselves. They looked like big dead blobs on the beach, but I assure you, they were very much alive. I NEED one.

We also visited the statue modeled after the famous picture of the sailor kissing a nurse. There was a posse of teenage Italian students that arrived there just before us, and like all Italians, they dominated the whole area with their loud Italian chattering while their chaperon directed each of them to imitate the famous kiss. I think ours beat theirs.