Part 2
As the traffic thinned out, I felt increasingly relaxed about drifting off periodically, Celeste snored obliviously on her towel, and O drove on like a determined Liman taxi driver. The wind blew, but now had turned hot, so O put up the windows and started the air conditioner. Ahhhhh...bliss. About 10 am, we blew into a little town to eat breakfast.
Celeste woke up, hopped out, and we took a short turn down the block to do her "business". She dutifully stepped off the sidewalk when nature called, and watched people as they passed. She always looks pleased with herself when she remembers to be courteous and handles her "business" off the sidewalk. She doesn't seem to notice that I'm with her, plastic bag and scooper at the ready. When she encounters a pile left in the middle of the walk by some other less cultured perrito, Celeste leaps to the side to avoid stepping in the nasty mess, a look of distain on her face. I know she learned that behavior from me. I'm hoping that with time, she'll begin to carry her own plastic bag and scooper.
We turned back up the block to return to O and find a restaurant. We stepped inside a little mom and pop place and Celeste took her favored spot by the wall, under the table. O ordered fried fish, I got chicken soup. Celeste got dog food and a fish tail and bit of chicken skin for dessert with a stale hard roll for a good chaw while we finished our meal.
After we ate, we climbed back into the car. Celeste looked at the front seat, but thought better of it and went to her towel. I fell back into the car and began sawing logs. I know this because I woke myself up two or three times with my own snoring. O roared up the street into the heart of the little town, and must have had several sudden stops and starts, because the next time I looked back at Celeste, she was still asleep, but off the seat and on the floor, towel draped over her back.
I woke up in time to see the sand dunes and the Pacific coastline close to the highway. The next time I woke up, I saw nothing but sand. Peruvian music was blaring on the radio and I fell asleep again. Gads, I was wiped out. We stopped at 7 toll booths on the way to Trujillo. SEVEN! The worst thing about it was that the highway, although it was going to be beautiful, hadn't been worked on for months and we were paying to travel through tiny, traffic-clogged villages. Charming at first, interesting later, tedious and irritating at the last.
Mar 25, 2008
Mar 24, 2008
Escape From the City - a story in several parts
Part I
Wednesday evening, O came home from work to announce that we needed to get out of town for the upcoming long weekend. He had arranged everything and we'd leave at 6 am Thursday morning. I was less than enthusiastic about the thought of driving 8 hours to Trujillo in the car, no matter how big it was, with Celeste. I've been down for about 3 months with some kind of crud, exhausted most days, and sick of coughing up snot and yuck. I just needed to sleep, and was counting on having the long weekend to do just that.
I whined, I cried, I wheedled, coughed and snorted. No, I couldn't go. How could I go, I felt so terrible. But it all fell on deaf ears. It had not occurred to me that a good part of my problem was the crap that was being constantly expelled from the hundreds of cars that pass through our neighborhood every day. It had occurred to O, however. We were off to warmer (if you can imagine that) climes, far from the maddening crowds and smoke-belching motors of Lima.
So we packed up Celeste and her leash, a backpack of clean clothes for O and I, and fell into the car. I fell into the car. Celeste leaped into the car, clambered into my lap, tried to jump into the driver's seat, twisted and turned, kicked and snorted, and generally wrestled around until I pretended I was Mike Tyson and bit her ear. She screamed, O looked shocked, I got mad, and Celeste was banned to the back seat. No window, no treats, no lap to lay her head in when she was tired, no little games to play when she was bored. She retaliated by trying to shove herself underneath the front seat from the rear, getting stuck, screaming for help, and refusing to cooperate when help was rendered. I left her there for the moment, reached into my backpack, and pulled out the only towel we'd thought to bring. I spread it across the backseat, grabbed Celeste by the tail, and hauled her out from under the front seat. Then, taking her by the hide and the throat, I wadded her up and slung her onto the towel, tweaked her nose and commanded her to STAY. She did. Celeste looked from me to O, and finding no sympathy anywhere, apparently decided it was better to pass the time on the towel. I had toyed with the idea of opening the door and shoving her out on the Pan American highway, but the moment had passed and we were on our way. The joys of dog ownership.
By this time, we had been on the road for about an hour and reached the outskirts of Lima. Celeste had fallen blissfully asleep on the towel and O was deftly dodging potholes and other escaping motorists, oblivious pedestrians in the street, and dogs in search of garbage for breakfast. The outer edges of Lima are not well maintained. I coughed and gagged and drifted in and out of various states of consciousness, unable to stay completely awake. Even the usual dangers of taxis, cars without head or tail lights, people crossing the highway without looking, or the tour buses that threatened to move over on top of us couldn't keep me awake. I slept at various times, dreaming of a comfortable towel to curl up on instead of being strapped in by a merciless seat belt. By 9 am, I took my first breath of uncontaminated air and woke up, partially refreshed. We'd broken free of the confines of Lima and crossed into the desert.
Wednesday evening, O came home from work to announce that we needed to get out of town for the upcoming long weekend. He had arranged everything and we'd leave at 6 am Thursday morning. I was less than enthusiastic about the thought of driving 8 hours to Trujillo in the car, no matter how big it was, with Celeste. I've been down for about 3 months with some kind of crud, exhausted most days, and sick of coughing up snot and yuck. I just needed to sleep, and was counting on having the long weekend to do just that.
I whined, I cried, I wheedled, coughed and snorted. No, I couldn't go. How could I go, I felt so terrible. But it all fell on deaf ears. It had not occurred to me that a good part of my problem was the crap that was being constantly expelled from the hundreds of cars that pass through our neighborhood every day. It had occurred to O, however. We were off to warmer (if you can imagine that) climes, far from the maddening crowds and smoke-belching motors of Lima.
So we packed up Celeste and her leash, a backpack of clean clothes for O and I, and fell into the car. I fell into the car. Celeste leaped into the car, clambered into my lap, tried to jump into the driver's seat, twisted and turned, kicked and snorted, and generally wrestled around until I pretended I was Mike Tyson and bit her ear. She screamed, O looked shocked, I got mad, and Celeste was banned to the back seat. No window, no treats, no lap to lay her head in when she was tired, no little games to play when she was bored. She retaliated by trying to shove herself underneath the front seat from the rear, getting stuck, screaming for help, and refusing to cooperate when help was rendered. I left her there for the moment, reached into my backpack, and pulled out the only towel we'd thought to bring. I spread it across the backseat, grabbed Celeste by the tail, and hauled her out from under the front seat. Then, taking her by the hide and the throat, I wadded her up and slung her onto the towel, tweaked her nose and commanded her to STAY. She did. Celeste looked from me to O, and finding no sympathy anywhere, apparently decided it was better to pass the time on the towel. I had toyed with the idea of opening the door and shoving her out on the Pan American highway, but the moment had passed and we were on our way. The joys of dog ownership.
By this time, we had been on the road for about an hour and reached the outskirts of Lima. Celeste had fallen blissfully asleep on the towel and O was deftly dodging potholes and other escaping motorists, oblivious pedestrians in the street, and dogs in search of garbage for breakfast. The outer edges of Lima are not well maintained. I coughed and gagged and drifted in and out of various states of consciousness, unable to stay completely awake. Even the usual dangers of taxis, cars without head or tail lights, people crossing the highway without looking, or the tour buses that threatened to move over on top of us couldn't keep me awake. I slept at various times, dreaming of a comfortable towel to curl up on instead of being strapped in by a merciless seat belt. By 9 am, I took my first breath of uncontaminated air and woke up, partially refreshed. We'd broken free of the confines of Lima and crossed into the desert.
Mar 18, 2008
A new knitting book
I received a new book in the mail the other day. It's called "Domiknitrix", by Jennifer Stafford. It has a black vinyl cover. Cool.
At first I thought it had to do with punk and goth knitting. But then I found out that it's really about getting a good handle on my knitting, no matter what my style of dressing is. Whew! That's a relief! And then I cracked open the book and techniques with step-by-step instructions and pictures or every step. That's good. And not let the yarn dominate me, not let the stitches dominate me, not let the whole thing overwhelm me. Okay. I don't usually have that problem, but sometimes I do.
And then I saw the projects. Interesting. Different. Goth-looking, some good for Halloween, some good for every day. Each with a box that says what knitting technique will be learned while making the pattern. That's good for me. With a change of color and motif, I could use these. So, all in all, not a bad book so far. I haven't sat down with it seriously yet, but I think it will prove to have been a good purchase.
At first I thought it had to do with punk and goth knitting. But then I found out that it's really about getting a good handle on my knitting, no matter what my style of dressing is. Whew! That's a relief! And then I cracked open the book and techniques with step-by-step instructions and pictures or every step. That's good. And not let the yarn dominate me, not let the stitches dominate me, not let the whole thing overwhelm me. Okay. I don't usually have that problem, but sometimes I do.
And then I saw the projects. Interesting. Different. Goth-looking, some good for Halloween, some good for every day. Each with a box that says what knitting technique will be learned while making the pattern. That's good for me. With a change of color and motif, I could use these. So, all in all, not a bad book so far. I haven't sat down with it seriously yet, but I think it will prove to have been a good purchase.
Mar 17, 2008
Confessions
I have a confession to make:
Sometimes, I am sick of listening to Spanish. It is truly a beautiful language. I have enjoyed studying it and will continue to study and practice, but I have my days when it just makes me brain-tired to listen to it. During these times I have to turn on the television and hunt for CSI or some other program on cable that they don't have dubbed in Spanish. It doesn't happen to me every day, but it's happening today and I just can't bring myself to go to the market to paw through the morning crowd for vegetables. I need to go to the supermarket instead. I need to go to Papa John's Pizza and blow 40 soles on a real pizza. I just need a regular dose of US to get me through the rest of the month. Luckily for me, I can get my regular doses of US without going too far from home. Papa John's just opened up about 5 blocks from our apartment building. I love that the banner inside the pizza place is all in English and that the names of the pizzas are in English, like "The Works". The supermarket has Mott's applesauce and Philadelphia cream cheese and Red Bull. Sometimes I search for things that have the original packaging that gives the ingredients in English and says that it was made in Chicago, Illinois.
Somedays I can't listen to music. I enjoy Peruvian music and it's beautiful, but I can only stand it in small doses, just as I can only stand rap, rock, country-western, jazz, and classical music in small doses. Before this week, I had never thought I could overdose and get sick on music, but it's happened. I think it's happened because when they play their typical Peruvian music, they play it at about 100 decibels and they play the same music over and over and over. Yesterday I was waiting in the car for O, listening to the radio and surfing the channels. I came across a channel that was playing the sound track from "Porgy and Bess", with no commercial interruptions. What a relief it was to listen to something easy and relaxing! O came back and switched the channel to something that would keep him energetic while driving. Okay. He wouldn't have switched channels if I had asked him not to. But now I know where the easy listening channel is and I'll use it at home.
I have days when I don't want to leave the apartment. It's my safe escape from the rest of the world. During those days, I completely resent it when someone comes to the door, calls on the phone, or when I have to go to work. Work draws me out of that mood, luckily. Living here with so much humanity around us is hard for me. We live in a nice neighborhood. It's clean, beautiful, lots to do, with friendly people and a regular security patrol. But sometimes listening to the neighbors play their music over and over, hearing their parties go till all hours of the night, the constant tooting of horns and squealing of brakes on the street sometimes gets to me.
One last thing that gets to me sometimes are the voices they use to dub over the voices from other languages and put them in Spanish. My niece told me that it seemed like every movie dubbed into Spanish sounded the same. That's because they are almost always the same people who are doing the voice-overs. But what really is my problem is that the women almost always use overly exaggerated voices, often falsetto voices and overly dramatic laughter. Gag me. It's especially bad if I've seen the movie before or if I'm familiar with the sound of the actor's voice. Imagine Angelina Jolie or Kathleen Turner with a high, screeching voice and a falsetto laugh. It's just wrong. Lara Croft wouldn't have been a successful tomb raider if she had sounded like a hysterical primadonna.
Sometimes, I am sick of listening to Spanish. It is truly a beautiful language. I have enjoyed studying it and will continue to study and practice, but I have my days when it just makes me brain-tired to listen to it. During these times I have to turn on the television and hunt for CSI or some other program on cable that they don't have dubbed in Spanish. It doesn't happen to me every day, but it's happening today and I just can't bring myself to go to the market to paw through the morning crowd for vegetables. I need to go to the supermarket instead. I need to go to Papa John's Pizza and blow 40 soles on a real pizza. I just need a regular dose of US to get me through the rest of the month. Luckily for me, I can get my regular doses of US without going too far from home. Papa John's just opened up about 5 blocks from our apartment building. I love that the banner inside the pizza place is all in English and that the names of the pizzas are in English, like "The Works". The supermarket has Mott's applesauce and Philadelphia cream cheese and Red Bull. Sometimes I search for things that have the original packaging that gives the ingredients in English and says that it was made in Chicago, Illinois.
Somedays I can't listen to music. I enjoy Peruvian music and it's beautiful, but I can only stand it in small doses, just as I can only stand rap, rock, country-western, jazz, and classical music in small doses. Before this week, I had never thought I could overdose and get sick on music, but it's happened. I think it's happened because when they play their typical Peruvian music, they play it at about 100 decibels and they play the same music over and over and over. Yesterday I was waiting in the car for O, listening to the radio and surfing the channels. I came across a channel that was playing the sound track from "Porgy and Bess", with no commercial interruptions. What a relief it was to listen to something easy and relaxing! O came back and switched the channel to something that would keep him energetic while driving. Okay. He wouldn't have switched channels if I had asked him not to. But now I know where the easy listening channel is and I'll use it at home.
I have days when I don't want to leave the apartment. It's my safe escape from the rest of the world. During those days, I completely resent it when someone comes to the door, calls on the phone, or when I have to go to work. Work draws me out of that mood, luckily. Living here with so much humanity around us is hard for me. We live in a nice neighborhood. It's clean, beautiful, lots to do, with friendly people and a regular security patrol. But sometimes listening to the neighbors play their music over and over, hearing their parties go till all hours of the night, the constant tooting of horns and squealing of brakes on the street sometimes gets to me.
One last thing that gets to me sometimes are the voices they use to dub over the voices from other languages and put them in Spanish. My niece told me that it seemed like every movie dubbed into Spanish sounded the same. That's because they are almost always the same people who are doing the voice-overs. But what really is my problem is that the women almost always use overly exaggerated voices, often falsetto voices and overly dramatic laughter. Gag me. It's especially bad if I've seen the movie before or if I'm familiar with the sound of the actor's voice. Imagine Angelina Jolie or Kathleen Turner with a high, screeching voice and a falsetto laugh. It's just wrong. Lara Croft wouldn't have been a successful tomb raider if she had sounded like a hysterical primadonna.
Mar 12, 2008
Another meme
I’ve been tagged by Greenfingers! Here are the rules:
Rules are:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Here goes.
1. I usually eat fresh salads, vegetables, and a protein when I have a meal, but when I feel bummed out, I make mashed potatoes with a lot of butter on them.
2. When I was little, I climbed a cherry tree in our backyard and got stuck. I bawled and screamed for help, and when my mom finally came, it was with a camera to take my picture, stuck up there in the tree. Only after I quit bawling and smiled for the camera did she help me out of the tree.
3. I love the smell of a dog. There's something very comforting to me about their body odor.
4. I like animal noses. There's nothing sweeter smelling than a horse's nose, nothing softer than a goat's nose, and nothing cuter than a dog's nose. I have a thing for animal noses, but not people's noses.
5. I get lost almost every day. Lima is so big that I lose my bearings when I go off the beaten track, which is almost always.
6. I'm attracted by shiny and colorful objects. My next of kin could be a magpie. I love costume jewelry because it's all glitter and color.
7. I'm a rock hound. i love to know what they are and how they are formed. When I was little I used to gather little stones and break them in half between two larger stones, until I smashed a couple of fingers doing that. Now I go for the polished ones and whenever I go walkng on a country road, I fill my pockets with pretty stones that get my attention.
Now for my seven victims:
1. WoolyWorks
2. Pondside
3. Wild Tomato
4. The Goddess in the Groove
5. Rani Knits
6. DJ Kirby
7. Toady
Ahhh..nothing like sharing the love....
Rules are:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Here goes.
1. I usually eat fresh salads, vegetables, and a protein when I have a meal, but when I feel bummed out, I make mashed potatoes with a lot of butter on them.
2. When I was little, I climbed a cherry tree in our backyard and got stuck. I bawled and screamed for help, and when my mom finally came, it was with a camera to take my picture, stuck up there in the tree. Only after I quit bawling and smiled for the camera did she help me out of the tree.
3. I love the smell of a dog. There's something very comforting to me about their body odor.
4. I like animal noses. There's nothing sweeter smelling than a horse's nose, nothing softer than a goat's nose, and nothing cuter than a dog's nose. I have a thing for animal noses, but not people's noses.
5. I get lost almost every day. Lima is so big that I lose my bearings when I go off the beaten track, which is almost always.
6. I'm attracted by shiny and colorful objects. My next of kin could be a magpie. I love costume jewelry because it's all glitter and color.
7. I'm a rock hound. i love to know what they are and how they are formed. When I was little I used to gather little stones and break them in half between two larger stones, until I smashed a couple of fingers doing that. Now I go for the polished ones and whenever I go walkng on a country road, I fill my pockets with pretty stones that get my attention.
Now for my seven victims:
1. WoolyWorks
2. Pondside
3. Wild Tomato
4. The Goddess in the Groove
5. Rani Knits
6. DJ Kirby
7. Toady
Ahhh..nothing like sharing the love....
Mar 11, 2008
Just comments
I just feel chatty today. I've been down with the flu or some kind of crud for about a week. Still going to work, but mostly just working and sleeping, when I wasn't coughing a lung up...eeeewwww.
But I'm on the mend now, and talkative as ever. My sailors are doing okay; there are two groups. The first group speaks very little English. They are to go to Hawaii at the end of May to participate in some kind of exercise. They are using the cds that I bought for O in the class. These cds give the instructions in Spanish and words to learn in English. They seem to understand what's going on, but when I ask in English, there are two that just smile and nod their heads. I know they don't get it. They can repeat things, which is good, but they can't make phrases on their own yet. For now, they're just learning vocabulary and individual phrases.
The second group are deploying to various countries with the UN, so they are taking things a little more seriously. They had to take an English exam in order to get into the class, and we are not only building vocabulary, but working on grammar. Still, most of them haven't studied English, but picked up what they know from watching television and movies. They are lots of fun. They can make sentences and jokes on their own and are working on writing daily reports to improve their grammar. Their speaking skills vary, but they can all make themselves understood in one way or another. Sometimes they need more body language and hand gestures to get their meaning across, but hey - whatever works!
On the Sunday, we went to a soccer match. I didn't get much out of it, but in between the coughing fits, I saw some of the game. What I really saw was the crowd and the police. I had no idea that soccer fans were so volatile. Fights broke out in the stands and the police formed lines in the stands to separate the opposing groups. When we left the stadium, mounted police and police on motorcycles escorted the people out of the area and down the street. Once we were walking and saw the mounted police take off ahead of us. We couldn't see or hear anything going on, but suddenly the whole crowd turned on its heels and ran straight at us. O and I ducked between cars to keep from being run over. We never did figure out what was happening, but at least we survived getting out of the parking lot and down the block. I wondered why I saw people leaving before the match ended. Now I know.
Celeste and I went to the park this morning, but there were no dogs to play with. Everyone was at work or in school, so we made a couple of laps around the park and headed back home. Actually, it's too hot to do much else. Celeste came back and crashed on the floor. I'm off again in a moment to the market to pick up some dog food and something for lunch. What sounds good to you for lunch?
But I'm on the mend now, and talkative as ever. My sailors are doing okay; there are two groups. The first group speaks very little English. They are to go to Hawaii at the end of May to participate in some kind of exercise. They are using the cds that I bought for O in the class. These cds give the instructions in Spanish and words to learn in English. They seem to understand what's going on, but when I ask in English, there are two that just smile and nod their heads. I know they don't get it. They can repeat things, which is good, but they can't make phrases on their own yet. For now, they're just learning vocabulary and individual phrases.
The second group are deploying to various countries with the UN, so they are taking things a little more seriously. They had to take an English exam in order to get into the class, and we are not only building vocabulary, but working on grammar. Still, most of them haven't studied English, but picked up what they know from watching television and movies. They are lots of fun. They can make sentences and jokes on their own and are working on writing daily reports to improve their grammar. Their speaking skills vary, but they can all make themselves understood in one way or another. Sometimes they need more body language and hand gestures to get their meaning across, but hey - whatever works!
On the Sunday, we went to a soccer match. I didn't get much out of it, but in between the coughing fits, I saw some of the game. What I really saw was the crowd and the police. I had no idea that soccer fans were so volatile. Fights broke out in the stands and the police formed lines in the stands to separate the opposing groups. When we left the stadium, mounted police and police on motorcycles escorted the people out of the area and down the street. Once we were walking and saw the mounted police take off ahead of us. We couldn't see or hear anything going on, but suddenly the whole crowd turned on its heels and ran straight at us. O and I ducked between cars to keep from being run over. We never did figure out what was happening, but at least we survived getting out of the parking lot and down the block. I wondered why I saw people leaving before the match ended. Now I know.
Celeste and I went to the park this morning, but there were no dogs to play with. Everyone was at work or in school, so we made a couple of laps around the park and headed back home. Actually, it's too hot to do much else. Celeste came back and crashed on the floor. I'm off again in a moment to the market to pick up some dog food and something for lunch. What sounds good to you for lunch?
Mar 10, 2008
in the mail
Today I got an extra special surprise from Maggie.
A whole big box full of beautiful spinning batts! Gorgeous colors and the fleece is so soft.
O laughed when he saw it, saying that I need to stop ooohing and aaahing and get spinning if I wanted to get it all spun by year's end.
He's probably right, but I need some ooo - aaah time first, and then I'll spin.
I've got my mornings free this month, so I'll have more time to spend knitting and spinning and playing with Celeste. Last month and the first of this month was hard on her, because both of us were working early mornings, when she normally has time with smeone to go walking and running. We're back to normal now and starting tomorrow, I'll only be working afternoons and evenings, so Ms. Blue Eyes will have her "me time" as well.
And here is O, computer geek, pharmacist, and the nicest and most patient and honest guy I know, except for my own father.
A whole big box full of beautiful spinning batts! Gorgeous colors and the fleece is so soft.
O laughed when he saw it, saying that I need to stop ooohing and aaahing and get spinning if I wanted to get it all spun by year's end.
He's probably right, but I need some ooo - aaah time first, and then I'll spin.
I've got my mornings free this month, so I'll have more time to spend knitting and spinning and playing with Celeste. Last month and the first of this month was hard on her, because both of us were working early mornings, when she normally has time with smeone to go walking and running. We're back to normal now and starting tomorrow, I'll only be working afternoons and evenings, so Ms. Blue Eyes will have her "me time" as well.
And here is O, computer geek, pharmacist, and the nicest and most patient and honest guy I know, except for my own father.
Mar 1, 2008
late night handspinning
Uuuufff...someone must have a birthday tonight. There's loud music coming from next door. It's nice music, but LOUD. So, while I've been enjoying this LOUD music, here's what I've been doing:
It's a sample of silk roving that I received in the mail from Farm Witch. I've not spun anything for a while, but finally, the bug bit me again. And I've never spun silk before. I like it! I plan to ply this bit of silk with an opalescent monofilament for prettiness and to add some strength to those thinner spots in my spinning. And then what will I do with it? I don't know...maybe make a sock toe or two from it.
How do you like my ceviche pan? Hehehehehe...makes a nice background.
The neighbors are now singing with the really loud music. Celeste is having better luck at sleeping than I am.
Stop that snoring, Celeste!
Feb 29, 2008
A new assignment
I got a call today from work in the fastest Spanish I've ever heard in my life. I must be getting used to it, because I got the gist of it and said I'd be there to speak with Ms. Caldaz (the academic directoress of the institute) at 5 pm.
When I arrived, Ms. Caldaz called me into her office and told me to sit. She had that tired look on her face that people get when they have to do something they really don't want to do or when they are unhappy abut a situation, but resigned to it. A couple of things ran through my mind just then. "Called in on my day off...am I getting fired? Or maybe she's going to give me another course." She was on the phone, so I sat there, sweating about it a little. You know, it's not that I desperately need the money (luckily) - I only have been earning an average of $300 per month there (just about poverty level for the Lima area, actually). But I always try to do my best at whatever I do, and to be fired for doing my best would be a huge blow to me.
Rosa Caldaz got off the phone, looked me in the eye, and told me that she wanted me to teach a survival course to not one, but two classes of sailors who were attending the Peruvian Army's School of War. In English. WHAT?!?! She'd been ordered to have the course ready to teach by Monday at 3pm. Another WHAT?!?! She told me that I was the logical choice, having been an employee of the US Air Force for so long (27 years). Yeah, like I learned CPR, general first aid, how to load a cargo plane and ambulance with stretchers of injured people, and how to use a compass. And I've packed my fair share of first aid kits. So I've got basically not much. Okay - I'll do it. I can teach it. (Heh, right.) I can at least talk about it.
Actually, it's not that these men are likely to go to war against anyone. Peru's military hasn't much of a war capability and their national defense is so antiquated that they wouldn't do much against an invading enemy. They're more like a civil defense organization that helps during natural disasters and augments the police when there is civil unrest. But they do have a UN mission, and do regularly go in small groups to the Congo, Haiti, Sudan, and various other hot spots across the globe as peacekeepers, equipped by other countries. And it seems that English is now the global language among the militaries of the world. Nearly all of the Peruvian soldiers that have gone anywhere end up working under the command of European or Canadian officers, and they have to speak English in order to function. So, hmmm. This is where I come in. I didn't know it, but for the last few months, I've been preparing these guys for their deployments. Last month, the soldiers told me what they were doing. This month, the directoress told me what I've been doing and what I will be doing. Last month it was Army guys. This month, I'll have 2 classes of sailors.
Survival training! What? In a month? I think I'm supposed to teach them how to ask and give directions, teach them to talk about survival issues, and give them the basic language tools to be able to help themselves and someone else, if necessary. I think I need more than a month. This month's course is going to be an intensive one, I guess. I hope they plan on participating. God knows I can talk for hours, but I need to know that they can talk too, when necessary.
When I arrived, Ms. Caldaz called me into her office and told me to sit. She had that tired look on her face that people get when they have to do something they really don't want to do or when they are unhappy abut a situation, but resigned to it. A couple of things ran through my mind just then. "Called in on my day off...am I getting fired? Or maybe she's going to give me another course." She was on the phone, so I sat there, sweating about it a little. You know, it's not that I desperately need the money (luckily) - I only have been earning an average of $300 per month there (just about poverty level for the Lima area, actually). But I always try to do my best at whatever I do, and to be fired for doing my best would be a huge blow to me.
Rosa Caldaz got off the phone, looked me in the eye, and told me that she wanted me to teach a survival course to not one, but two classes of sailors who were attending the Peruvian Army's School of War. In English. WHAT?!?! She'd been ordered to have the course ready to teach by Monday at 3pm. Another WHAT?!?! She told me that I was the logical choice, having been an employee of the US Air Force for so long (27 years). Yeah, like I learned CPR, general first aid, how to load a cargo plane and ambulance with stretchers of injured people, and how to use a compass. And I've packed my fair share of first aid kits. So I've got basically not much. Okay - I'll do it. I can teach it. (Heh, right.) I can at least talk about it.
Actually, it's not that these men are likely to go to war against anyone. Peru's military hasn't much of a war capability and their national defense is so antiquated that they wouldn't do much against an invading enemy. They're more like a civil defense organization that helps during natural disasters and augments the police when there is civil unrest. But they do have a UN mission, and do regularly go in small groups to the Congo, Haiti, Sudan, and various other hot spots across the globe as peacekeepers, equipped by other countries. And it seems that English is now the global language among the militaries of the world. Nearly all of the Peruvian soldiers that have gone anywhere end up working under the command of European or Canadian officers, and they have to speak English in order to function. So, hmmm. This is where I come in. I didn't know it, but for the last few months, I've been preparing these guys for their deployments. Last month, the soldiers told me what they were doing. This month, the directoress told me what I've been doing and what I will be doing. Last month it was Army guys. This month, I'll have 2 classes of sailors.
Survival training! What? In a month? I think I'm supposed to teach them how to ask and give directions, teach them to talk about survival issues, and give them the basic language tools to be able to help themselves and someone else, if necessary. I think I need more than a month. This month's course is going to be an intensive one, I guess. I hope they plan on participating. God knows I can talk for hours, but I need to know that they can talk too, when necessary.
Feb 28, 2008
Just for fun
If you haven't had a good side-splitting laugh for a while, go to Milla's blog and read about her dog, Lolly, among other things. Hilarious!
Something Jay Leno wrote recently
I received this in my e-mail today, and I liked it, so I'm posting it.
Hope you will all read to the end. Jay Leno puts it into perspective and makes us think about the pathetic negativity. That's right, Jay Leno!!
Jay Leno wrote this; it's the Jay Leno we don't often see....
"The other day I was reading Newsweek magazine and came across some poll data I found rather hard to believe. It must be true, given the source, right?
The Newsweek poll alleges that 67 percent of Americans are unhappy with the direction the country is headed, and 69 percent of the country is unhappy with the performance of the President. In essence, 2/3's of the citizenry just ain't happy and want a change.
So being the knuckle dragger I am, I started thinking, ''What are we so unhappy about?''
Is it that we have electricity and running water 24 hours a day, 7 days a week?
Is our unhappiness the result of having air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter?
Could it be that 95.4 percent of these unhappy folks have a job?
Maybe it is the ability to walk into a grocery store at any time, and see more food in moments than Darfur has seen in the last year?
Maybe it is the ability to drive from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean without having to present identification papers as we move through each state?
Or possibly the hundreds of clean and safe motels we would find along the way that can provide temporary shelter?
I guess having thousands of restaurants with varying cuisine from around the world is just not good enough.
Or could it be that when we wreck our car, emergency workers show up and
Provide services to help all, and even send a helicopter to take you to the hospital.
Perhaps you are one of the 70 percent of Americans who own a home. You may be upset with knowing that in the unfortunate case of a fire, a group of trained firefighters will appear in moments and use top notch equipment to extinguish the flames thus saving you, your family and your belongings.
Or if, while at home watching one of your many flat screen TVs, a burglar or prowler intrudes , an officer equipped with a gun and a bullet-proof vest will come to defend you and your family against attack or loss.
This all in the backdrop of a neighborhood free of bombs or militias raping and pillaging the residents. Neighborhoods where 90 percent of teenagers own cell phones and computers.
How about the complete religious, social and political freedoms we enjoy that are the envy of everyone in the world?
Maybe that is what has 67 percent of you folks unhappy.
Fact is, we are the largest group of ungrateful, spoiled brats the world has ever seen. No wonder the world loves the U.S. , yet has a great disdain for its citizens. They see us for what we are. The most blessed people in the world who do nothing but complain about what we don't have , and what we hate about the country instead of thanking the good Lord we live here.
I know, I know. What about the President who took us into war and has no plan to get us out? The President who has a measly 31 percent approval rating? Is this the same President who guided the nation in the dark days after 9/11? The President that cut taxes to bring an economy out of recession? Could this be the same guy who has been called every name in the book for succeeding in keeping all the spoiled ungrateful brats safe from terrorist attacks?
The Commander-In Chief of an all-volunteer army that is out there defending you and me? Did you hear how bad the President is on the news or talk show? Did this news affect you so much, make you so unhappy you couldn't take a look around for yourself and see all the good things and be glad?
Think about it...are you upset at the President because he actually caused you personal pain OR is it because the "Media" told you he was failing to kiss your sorry ungrateful behind every day.
Make no mistake about it. The troops in Iraq and Afghanistan have volunteered to serve, and in many cases may have died for your freedom. There is currently no draft in this country. They didn't have to go.
They are able to refuse to go and end up with either a ''general'' discharge, an ''other than honorable'' discharge or, worst case scenario, a ''dishonorable'' discharge after a few days in the brig.
So why then the flat-out discontentment in the minds of 69 percent of Americans? Say what you want, but I blame it on the media. If it bleeds, it leads; and they specialize in bad news. Everybody will watch a car crash with blood and guts. How many will watch kids selling lemonade at the corner? The media knows this and media outlets are for-profit corporations. They offer what sells , and when criticized, try to defend their actions by "justifying" them in one way or another. Just ask why they tried to allow a murderer like O.J. Simpson to write a book about "how he didn't kill his wife, but if he did he would have done it this way"...Insane!
Stop buying the negativism you are fed everyday by the media. Shut off the TV, burn Newsweek, and use the New York Times for the bottom of your bird cage. Then start being grateful for all we have as a country. There is exponentially more good than bad.
We are among the most blessed people on Earth, and should thank God several times a day, or at least be thankful and appreciative.
"With hurricanes, tornados, fires out of control, mud slides, flooding, severe thunderstorms tearing up the country from one end to another, and with the threat of bird flu and terrorist attacks, "Are we sure this is a good time to take God out of the Pledge of Allegiance?"
Jay Leno
2008
Hope you will all read to the end. Jay Leno puts it into perspective and makes us think about the pathetic negativity. That's right, Jay Leno!!
Jay Leno wrote this; it's the Jay Leno we don't often see....
"The other day I was reading Newsweek magazine and came across some poll data I found rather hard to believe. It must be true, given the source, right?
The Newsweek poll alleges that 67 percent of Americans are unhappy with the direction the country is headed, and 69 percent of the country is unhappy with the performance of the President. In essence, 2/3's of the citizenry just ain't happy and want a change.
So being the knuckle dragger I am, I started thinking, ''What are we so unhappy about?''
Is it that we have electricity and running water 24 hours a day, 7 days a week?
Is our unhappiness the result of having air conditioning in the summer and heating in the winter?
Could it be that 95.4 percent of these unhappy folks have a job?
Maybe it is the ability to walk into a grocery store at any time, and see more food in moments than Darfur has seen in the last year?
Maybe it is the ability to drive from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean without having to present identification papers as we move through each state?
Or possibly the hundreds of clean and safe motels we would find along the way that can provide temporary shelter?
I guess having thousands of restaurants with varying cuisine from around the world is just not good enough.
Or could it be that when we wreck our car, emergency workers show up and
Provide services to help all, and even send a helicopter to take you to the hospital.
Perhaps you are one of the 70 percent of Americans who own a home. You may be upset with knowing that in the unfortunate case of a fire, a group of trained firefighters will appear in moments and use top notch equipment to extinguish the flames thus saving you, your family and your belongings.
Or if, while at home watching one of your many flat screen TVs, a burglar or prowler intrudes , an officer equipped with a gun and a bullet-proof vest will come to defend you and your family against attack or loss.
This all in the backdrop of a neighborhood free of bombs or militias raping and pillaging the residents. Neighborhoods where 90 percent of teenagers own cell phones and computers.
How about the complete religious, social and political freedoms we enjoy that are the envy of everyone in the world?
Maybe that is what has 67 percent of you folks unhappy.
Fact is, we are the largest group of ungrateful, spoiled brats the world has ever seen. No wonder the world loves the U.S. , yet has a great disdain for its citizens. They see us for what we are. The most blessed people in the world who do nothing but complain about what we don't have , and what we hate about the country instead of thanking the good Lord we live here.
I know, I know. What about the President who took us into war and has no plan to get us out? The President who has a measly 31 percent approval rating? Is this the same President who guided the nation in the dark days after 9/11? The President that cut taxes to bring an economy out of recession? Could this be the same guy who has been called every name in the book for succeeding in keeping all the spoiled ungrateful brats safe from terrorist attacks?
The Commander-In Chief of an all-volunteer army that is out there defending you and me? Did you hear how bad the President is on the news or talk show? Did this news affect you so much, make you so unhappy you couldn't take a look around for yourself and see all the good things and be glad?
Think about it...are you upset at the President because he actually caused you personal pain OR is it because the "Media" told you he was failing to kiss your sorry ungrateful behind every day.
Make no mistake about it. The troops in Iraq and Afghanistan have volunteered to serve, and in many cases may have died for your freedom. There is currently no draft in this country. They didn't have to go.
They are able to refuse to go and end up with either a ''general'' discharge, an ''other than honorable'' discharge or, worst case scenario, a ''dishonorable'' discharge after a few days in the brig.
So why then the flat-out discontentment in the minds of 69 percent of Americans? Say what you want, but I blame it on the media. If it bleeds, it leads; and they specialize in bad news. Everybody will watch a car crash with blood and guts. How many will watch kids selling lemonade at the corner? The media knows this and media outlets are for-profit corporations. They offer what sells , and when criticized, try to defend their actions by "justifying" them in one way or another. Just ask why they tried to allow a murderer like O.J. Simpson to write a book about "how he didn't kill his wife, but if he did he would have done it this way"...Insane!
Stop buying the negativism you are fed everyday by the media. Shut off the TV, burn Newsweek, and use the New York Times for the bottom of your bird cage. Then start being grateful for all we have as a country. There is exponentially more good than bad.
We are among the most blessed people on Earth, and should thank God several times a day, or at least be thankful and appreciative.
"With hurricanes, tornados, fires out of control, mud slides, flooding, severe thunderstorms tearing up the country from one end to another, and with the threat of bird flu and terrorist attacks, "Are we sure this is a good time to take God out of the Pledge of Allegiance?"
Jay Leno
2008
Feb 26, 2008
And most recently...
Look! My first sock is finished and the second not far behind! They are of worsted weight acrylic. I'm not "addicted" per se, but you know I run home and grab a couple of rows before doing anything else. I get a row in first thing after taking Celeste out in the morning. No, I'm not addicted. Not me. No sock addict here. Nope, nope, nope. Not that I've already started planning my March St. Patty's Day socks or anything. Not that I've been looking for even more sock patterns and gorgeous yarns to make them in. No...no, I deny all of it.
I'll be done with the second sock this week. How soon can I start on the March socks?
I'll be done with the second sock this week. How soon can I start on the March socks?
Feb 23, 2008
Mad Mr. T - Fleet Street's Demonic Barber **Warning - Spoiler**
I just got back from watching "Sweeney Todd, Demon Barber of Fleet Street". I enjoyed it. It was a dark comedic thing; the depiction of London was as gray as could be, without a hint of sunshine, until Mrs. Lovett's daydream about marrying mad Mr. T. In spite of many throats graphically cut and blood sprayed in all directions, Johnny Depp's performance was as brilliant as ever and he sings pretty well, too. I doubt I will ever get tired of him as an actor. The few interviews with him that I've seen have been much less than brilliant, but I could care less about his personal life or opinions so I don't hold those few dreary moments against him. (Not much of a fan then, am I?)
It's not, though, a movie for kids. As I said, throats graphically cut and blood sprayed in all directions, even by special effects...these might cause some nightmares...think "Edward Scissorhands" with an attitude. In fact, those of us who have seen "Edward Scissorhands" will recognise the hair right away.
The only thing I didn't like about the movie was the ending. Mr. T is killed by a kid. Throat cut with his own razor, and simply bleeds to death with his dead wife (whom he's just discovered that he's killed) in his lap. I suppose that's life, though, and death. Most of us don't go out with a bang. We just go. No happy ending for this killer, no matter how he amazed us with his singing voice. In spite of that, I want the dvd when it comes out.
It's not, though, a movie for kids. As I said, throats graphically cut and blood sprayed in all directions, even by special effects...these might cause some nightmares...think "Edward Scissorhands" with an attitude. In fact, those of us who have seen "Edward Scissorhands" will recognise the hair right away.
The only thing I didn't like about the movie was the ending. Mr. T is killed by a kid. Throat cut with his own razor, and simply bleeds to death with his dead wife (whom he's just discovered that he's killed) in his lap. I suppose that's life, though, and death. Most of us don't go out with a bang. We just go. No happy ending for this killer, no matter how he amazed us with his singing voice. In spite of that, I want the dvd when it comes out.
The next crochet project
This is my next crochet project. My copy of Interweave Crochet FINALLY arrived and I fell in love with this shawl as soon as I saw it. Mine, of course will turn out differently, since I cannot leave a pattern alone and make it as it is written, at least after the first time I use the pattern.
A pattern is really more for inspiration and guidance than for following to the letter, in my own mind.
A pattern is really more for inspiration and guidance than for following to the letter, in my own mind.
What do you think? Could it be fun? It COULD be fun!!!
Adventures in Celeste Land
Celeste's troubles continue...from a broken heart to otitis...and we had an adventure on the beach!
Following the announcement of Gallo's impending "domestic arrangement", I took Celeste to the park to run off some of the stresses and frustrations that a sled dog can feel while living in a small flat with no yard. While we were there, we met another husky dog, who was about 5 years old. He was gorgeous, with a full coat of black hair, but absolutely no inclination to play. The woman who was with him said that he was 5 years old and now doesn't ever play. He goes many places with her, but is quite stoic and calm in all things. I hope the day never comes that Celeste doesn't want to play at least a little bit.
Then we met the most wonderful Irish Setter gal, who played and ran the legs right off Celeste. Celeste normally is the dominant one in play, boxing with her front legs and doing a lot of chest-butting, but this setter was the dominant one last weekend. She played with Celeste till Ms. Blue Eyes was bushed, then pushed her to run and did her own bit of boxing. Celeste didn't know what to think! Who on earth was this skinny shot of red? Why didn't she ever wear down? Luckily, a chunky pit bull boy on a leash came by and Celeste ran for cover when the setter turned her attention to him. We took our leave and dragged ourselves home to sprawl on the floor of the apartment.
Then on Sunday, we went to the beach! La Tiza is a beautiful private beach, with a restaurant and pool up the hill, in case the water of the sea is too cold or too dirty or whatever. Celeste visited the ocean for the first time. But, oooo, that sneaky ocean water! While she was chasing a retreating wave, another bigger one came rolling in. Celeste disappeared momentarily, then leapt into O's arms for protection...just as another big wave arrived. They BOTH disappeared again.
The afternoon was spent walking on the sand, chasing bug and sticks, tormenting other visitors, but never NEVER going near the water again. In spite of staying out of the water, Celeste developed an ear infection after her beach weekend and is at the vet's office as I am writing this.
And we passed a milestone...Celeste rode all the way to the beach and back, in the car, without puking a drop! Her hair is nearly all shed out, too, leaving her with a silky soft silver and black summer coat. She's gorgeous and nicely-behaved and, finally, a pleasure to ride with in the car. Celeste is growing up. She's not the crabby and demanding little princess that she had planned to be. She's learned to heel while on the leash, sit when we come to a stop, leave people alone unless invited to leap in their arms, and she's learned that home is the best place for any little girl to be.
The bad news is that we did all this without thinking of taking the camera.
Following the announcement of Gallo's impending "domestic arrangement", I took Celeste to the park to run off some of the stresses and frustrations that a sled dog can feel while living in a small flat with no yard. While we were there, we met another husky dog, who was about 5 years old. He was gorgeous, with a full coat of black hair, but absolutely no inclination to play. The woman who was with him said that he was 5 years old and now doesn't ever play. He goes many places with her, but is quite stoic and calm in all things. I hope the day never comes that Celeste doesn't want to play at least a little bit.
Then we met the most wonderful Irish Setter gal, who played and ran the legs right off Celeste. Celeste normally is the dominant one in play, boxing with her front legs and doing a lot of chest-butting, but this setter was the dominant one last weekend. She played with Celeste till Ms. Blue Eyes was bushed, then pushed her to run and did her own bit of boxing. Celeste didn't know what to think! Who on earth was this skinny shot of red? Why didn't she ever wear down? Luckily, a chunky pit bull boy on a leash came by and Celeste ran for cover when the setter turned her attention to him. We took our leave and dragged ourselves home to sprawl on the floor of the apartment.
Then on Sunday, we went to the beach! La Tiza is a beautiful private beach, with a restaurant and pool up the hill, in case the water of the sea is too cold or too dirty or whatever. Celeste visited the ocean for the first time. But, oooo, that sneaky ocean water! While she was chasing a retreating wave, another bigger one came rolling in. Celeste disappeared momentarily, then leapt into O's arms for protection...just as another big wave arrived. They BOTH disappeared again.
The afternoon was spent walking on the sand, chasing bug and sticks, tormenting other visitors, but never NEVER going near the water again. In spite of staying out of the water, Celeste developed an ear infection after her beach weekend and is at the vet's office as I am writing this.
And we passed a milestone...Celeste rode all the way to the beach and back, in the car, without puking a drop! Her hair is nearly all shed out, too, leaving her with a silky soft silver and black summer coat. She's gorgeous and nicely-behaved and, finally, a pleasure to ride with in the car. Celeste is growing up. She's not the crabby and demanding little princess that she had planned to be. She's learned to heel while on the leash, sit when we come to a stop, leave people alone unless invited to leap in their arms, and she's learned that home is the best place for any little girl to be.
The bad news is that we did all this without thinking of taking the camera.
Feb 14, 2008
Young love, dashed...
Well, the inevitable has happened...Last month we had Celeste spayed and this month her one and only true love, Galo the beagle, is being forced into an arranged marriage. Galo - noble, chunky, stalwort fellow that he is - is taking it all in stride with the stoicism of the older (three years old) man. Celeste is crying and moaning in her sleep. She found out about the situation while we were on the bike path...Galo was escorting the maid on the bike path this evening when we met him. The maid delivered the shocking news and, shortly afterward, Celeste retired to her crate crying softly into her water dish. Poor thing. So young to have her heart broken. Who knew, with all the free dog love on the streets of Lima, that there would be an arranged marriage on the not-so-distant horizon?
Poor Celeste. Will she recover? Will she find a new love or continue to worship Galo from a short distance (the other side of the bike path)? The rottweiler this afternoon was SOOO aggressive, so angry...why are all the good ones already taken?
On the upside, there are still all those women wearing interesting perfumes and carrying grocery bags full of intriguing goodies, all to be sniffed furtively as they pass on the sidewalk!
Feb 12, 2008
Book MEME
This one is a Book Meme, and I've been tagged by IntheMud at the Life In The Mud! Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.
1. Okay...the nearest book - The Shell Seekers, By Rosamunde Pilcher.
2. Open the book to page 123 - yup.
3. Find the fifth sentence: "I've been dreading telling you."
4. Post the next three sentences: "Just shocked. So sudden." Her hand went out to grope for a chair, found one.
5. Tag five people.
I'm going to cheat here, and say that if you've come here and read this, you've been tagged. Find that nearest book and post away!
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.
1. Okay...the nearest book - The Shell Seekers, By Rosamunde Pilcher.
2. Open the book to page 123 - yup.
3. Find the fifth sentence: "I've been dreading telling you."
4. Post the next three sentences: "Just shocked. So sudden." Her hand went out to grope for a chair, found one.
5. Tag five people.
I'm going to cheat here, and say that if you've come here and read this, you've been tagged. Find that nearest book and post away!
Feb 11, 2008
And the "MWAH" award goes to...
I just got a "MWAH" award from Inthemud! I'm tickled pink about it! Now I have some people here that deserve a big fat "MWAH" from me:
La Gringa
Greenlee
Woolyworks
The Wild Tomato
Raniknits
Maggie
JC
Whenever I get on the computer, I go straight to these blogs. I can't wait to see what they've posted!
Feb 10, 2008
Smile!
Click here to see two of the most beautiful smiles I've seen in a long time. The one on the left is Gammy, resident of Triangle Cross Ranch and felt-maker extraordinaire, and the other is my sister, Suzzanne aka Woolyworks, who is extraordinary and magical in her own right. Things like this make me homesick and teary, misty, wistful, and they make me bawl like a dad-gum baby.
More smiles please!
More smiles please!
Feb 8, 2008
A Day in My Life
I wrote about a typical day in my life yesterday...here it is, and I'll try to embellish it in the next few days with photos.
The alarm goes off at 5:15 This morning, and 15 minutes later, the Celeste alarm goes off. I'm warm and comfy in bed, but the dog needs to go out. We live just off a very busy four-lane throughfare, so Celeste (ignorant of wild Peruvian traffic) cannot go outside off the leash. And she needs to blow off some of that steam and stink that she accumulated during the night, so out we go to the bike path. If we get out there before 6:30, traffic will be minimal and we won't have to dodge cars to cross the street. Fifteen minutes later, she's done her business and we've both run a block or two. Back to the apartment building and upstairs to the second floor. She goes into her crate to eat her breakfast and I'm in the shower.
After a shower, I put on the tea kettle and make a quick breakfast. O snoozes obliviously until the tea kettle whistles and he smells something cooking. I have a mug of tea and get my clothes pressed for work. I throw them on, pull my hair into a pony tail, gather up my book bag and head out the door by 7 am. O continues eating. Ciao, baby. See you this afternoon.
On the street, I cross the 4-laner and catch a "combi". That's what they call mini-vans that have been outfitted with 4 rows of bench seats set so close that your knees are around your ears. It's 15 cents to go from Pachecutec to Cuba Ave. Sometimes so many people are crowded into the combi that some can't sit down and the cobrador (who take your money, yells out the window where the combi route goes, and opens and closes the door) can't close the door and uses his own body in place of the door to keep passengers from falling out while the van is moving. And traffic here in Lima is so crazy. Salaverry is a 4-lane highway, but between taxies, busses, combis, and passenger cars, it is often 6 or 7 lanes at any given time. Horns constantly blow, turn signals are a waste on most cars, because the people don't use them. Usually someone waggles a finger out a window and that's good enough. Traffic lights are only respected if there's a policeman at the corner. Sometimes it's better just to keep my eyes on the floor, especially when drivers perform that incredibly common Latin American feat of making a left-hand turn from the far right lane in front of cars that are continuing straight ahead. I have a near stroke every time I witness it, especially if I'm in the vehicle that's doing the illegal turn.
The bus rockets the length of Salaverry Avenue to Cuba and I climb out on the corner to walk the rest of the way to the institute where I teach. I arrive at the main entrance of CIVIME (Centro de Idiomas de la Virgen de las Mercedes) at 7:15 and get up to my classroom. Class starts at 7:30. This month, I'm teaching the final cycle in the 30-month series of a North American English course in the mornings. CIVIME is almost half a city block of Buildings that began as two-story buildings in a square with a patio in the center of the square. After 30 years, they have added 2 more stories onto buildings that should have been renovated several years ago. Luckily, there have been no catastrophic disasters to test the integrity of the buildings. I'm hoping we don't put a foot through the dry-rotted spots in the floors of the second story of Building D while I'm working here. My students arrive and we get started.
Class includes (usually) some vocabulary practice, a little grammar, several writing exercises, and some repetitious pronunciations. In order to be sure that the students understand everything that I'm presenting, I ask them to produce verbal examples of the grammar points, use the vocabulary, and use everything in conversation. I also include additional material that I bring from home, because this course is from the US military, and tends to get a little boring, if you're not into military life. Omar the puppet has yet to make his appearance in my daily classes, but we often produce short texts and narrations about him. Improvisation is included at the end of the class - almost anything to keep their interest and keep them talking - and then class ends at 9. I'm out of there a few moments later and downstairs to check on any news from management and say hi to my friends.
One of my friends is Pedrito, an English instructor and native of Peru, who tells anyone who will listen that he is a "near-native speaker." Although he's never been outside of Peru, he often starts a conversation with, "When I was in London," or "When I was in Manhattan..." Pedrito is a little bit effeminate and usually makes his entrance into a room with books under one arm and the other arm raised at the elbow with the limp wrist effect, kind of like a chicken with one weak wing. Or a butterfly flying along weakly with one tattered wing.
As I leave CIVIME, I usually grab a breakfast sandwich in the little cafeteria, then head out the door to catch another bus home. By the time I arrive home at 9:30, O has already gone to work and Celeste is asking to go out again. I change my clothes, grab Celeste, and we're out to the bike path again to do her business. Then to the open market to pay a couple of bills, get some vegetables, maybe a couple of pieces of chicken and a chewbone for Celeste. We're home by 10:30 and put away the few groceries I've bought. I toss a load of laundry into the washer and set it to work. Celeste's hair is everywhere in the apartment this time of year, so that has to be swept up, then she goes into her crate while I mop and the floor dries. While the floor dries, I knit on a sock and get the heel turned...YEAY! Then Celeste comes back out, I get the dishes done, and clean the rest of the apartment. We go back outside to play for awhile, then in to make lunch at noon.
Today lunch was a sandwich of herbed bread with fried eggplant, cheese, and tomato sauce; a salad of lettuce, tomato, and cubes of fresh cheese; and a small bottle of imported German beer. After lunch, I prepare my lesson plan for the aftenoon class, which is the same course as the morning class, and then at 2pm, Celeste and I go outside once more. At 2:30, I have to get ready for class again, so I change into my long skirt and a blouse again, look like a teacher again, and gather up my stuff. This evening I also have a conversation class at 6, so I take some extra material with me.
At 3:15, O comes home and I'm just about on my way out the door. I usually take a combi to Cuba Ave. once more, but today, O offers to drive me to work. I arrive 10 minutes early, get 10 copies of materials for the conversation class and get a bottle of water at the cafeteria. On my way to my classroom, out the corner of my eye, I see a little butterfly with a tattered wing fluttering along behind me. It's Pedrito. He tells me that he's planning to attend my conversation class at 6 pm. "When I was in Manhattan..." He smiles a big wide smile and bats his eyes at me. Okay. Flutter along boy, flutter along.
Pedrito is one of the funniest people I have ever met. Funny in more than just "haha" funny. He talks continuously, often not making any sense at all, but feeling that he's getting his fair share of attention from whomever happens to be in the room. While he's talking he waves a hand limply and smiles broadly, batting his eyes, then sashays from the room making a dramatic exit. I can't tell if what I suspect is true, because he has asked several of the female teachers who work there to marry him. But I suspect...I suspect...he's just a little more than a feminine man. One never knows, though.
The other men who teach there laugh at/with Pedrito good-naturedly. They like him, mostly, and don't want to hurt his feelings, so they never allude to his femininity, but tease him when he starts talking about the last time he was in Manhattan. The joke is that "hato" is slang for home, so when he says "Manhattan", they say, "Mi hato" (my home) over and over. If you say it fast enough it could sound something like "Manhattan". "Oh, really, Pedrito? Mi hato? The last time you were in mi hato?"
At 4:15, my afternoon class is in session and only one student shows up on time. Later, one more arrives, then another, and another. That's the thing about Peru - everyone arrives fashionably late. It's irritating to me, but I'm getting used to it some. The class today is pretty small, but they all participate and we have fun. We joke about the rat that ran out of the cafeteria yesterday. Everyone screamed and three maintenance men chased the rat around the compound with brooms, like something out of the Keystone Kops. The screams turned into laughter and everyone came away thinking it was some practical joke for Carnival. I have one woman in class that failed last month with a different instructor. I know she's in my class this month because I have very few students that fail and she's hoping that maybe I'll do something different and Rosario will pass with flying colors. I think I've just been very lucky so far. I've had really good students in the year I've been teaching here.
My 4:15 class flies by and we're finished at 5:45. My conversation class starts at 6 pm, so I go to the next classroom to get set up. Last Saturday, I only had 2 people come, so I'm kind of apprehensive about the way the class will go. Pedrito flutters in at 6 and then out again when more people begin to trickle in, until I've got a room stuffed full of students and we're dragging desks in from other rooms. We begin with a handout about manners, which seemed like a relatively boring topic, but turned into a huge discussion about what Peru does, culturally, that is a turn-off to the rest of the world, like the lack of punctuality across the board, spitting on the sidewalk, peeing in public (in the park, on the street, on the sidewalk, etc) which is a very common practice among Peruvian men, shoving one's way through a crowded city bus to get out the door before the bus pulls away from the bus stop, and throwing trash and garbage in the streets and sidewalks.
With each topic brought up, students were asked how they would handle it if they were confronted with a situation. They all had their strong opinions. Then each one had to put themselves in the shoes of the person who was dropping trash on the street, peeing on the sidewalk, or habitually showing up late to work. So interesting to see the way they understood why things are the way they are, and so interesting to see that they want to change things, but are hobbled by their cultural and familial inhibitions. This class also flew by and officially ended at 7:30, but many students stayed a bit longer to chew on the ends of their discussions. One student stayed to tell me how scared he was to mispronounce his words and talked nearly 30 minutes. Two more asked for a technical manual to be translated, but I had to refer them to another instructor who actually does translations. Then I caught a bus from Cuba Ave down to Salaverry, and from there, I took a combi home to Pachecutec. Whew! Home by 8:30!
It really is funny that we seem to plan our days around the dog. And I'm sure she plans her day around what she wants us to do, heh. She is involved with every activity, from making breakfast to creating a lesson plan. Right there, supervising everything from the floor, sometimes planting a paw on my foot or laying her chin on the coffee table. The only thing she can't do is help with the sweeping and mopping, and that irritates her. Oh, and she's not allowed to be left free and unsupervised in the house while we're at work, but I think she's used to it by now. But, Celeste was yelling to be let out of her crate when I walked in the door. I changed my clothes again and we went out to the bike path again, on the grass...Celeste is one of those Peruvians that pees in public. We ran and played a little while, then came inside to check e-mail and WHAT? Write about a day in my life? So here I am, writing. O has come home from work at 9:30 pm, and gone straight to bed. Celeste has gone out once more and is now in bed. I need to finish here and go to bed. Tomorrow morning comes early and I'll have be working till 10:15 pm tomorrow night...
Good Lord, this seems long.
The alarm goes off at 5:15 This morning, and 15 minutes later, the Celeste alarm goes off. I'm warm and comfy in bed, but the dog needs to go out. We live just off a very busy four-lane throughfare, so Celeste (ignorant of wild Peruvian traffic) cannot go outside off the leash. And she needs to blow off some of that steam and stink that she accumulated during the night, so out we go to the bike path. If we get out there before 6:30, traffic will be minimal and we won't have to dodge cars to cross the street. Fifteen minutes later, she's done her business and we've both run a block or two. Back to the apartment building and upstairs to the second floor. She goes into her crate to eat her breakfast and I'm in the shower.
After a shower, I put on the tea kettle and make a quick breakfast. O snoozes obliviously until the tea kettle whistles and he smells something cooking. I have a mug of tea and get my clothes pressed for work. I throw them on, pull my hair into a pony tail, gather up my book bag and head out the door by 7 am. O continues eating. Ciao, baby. See you this afternoon.
On the street, I cross the 4-laner and catch a "combi". That's what they call mini-vans that have been outfitted with 4 rows of bench seats set so close that your knees are around your ears. It's 15 cents to go from Pachecutec to Cuba Ave. Sometimes so many people are crowded into the combi that some can't sit down and the cobrador (who take your money, yells out the window where the combi route goes, and opens and closes the door) can't close the door and uses his own body in place of the door to keep passengers from falling out while the van is moving. And traffic here in Lima is so crazy. Salaverry is a 4-lane highway, but between taxies, busses, combis, and passenger cars, it is often 6 or 7 lanes at any given time. Horns constantly blow, turn signals are a waste on most cars, because the people don't use them. Usually someone waggles a finger out a window and that's good enough. Traffic lights are only respected if there's a policeman at the corner. Sometimes it's better just to keep my eyes on the floor, especially when drivers perform that incredibly common Latin American feat of making a left-hand turn from the far right lane in front of cars that are continuing straight ahead. I have a near stroke every time I witness it, especially if I'm in the vehicle that's doing the illegal turn.
The bus rockets the length of Salaverry Avenue to Cuba and I climb out on the corner to walk the rest of the way to the institute where I teach. I arrive at the main entrance of CIVIME (Centro de Idiomas de la Virgen de las Mercedes) at 7:15 and get up to my classroom. Class starts at 7:30. This month, I'm teaching the final cycle in the 30-month series of a North American English course in the mornings. CIVIME is almost half a city block of Buildings that began as two-story buildings in a square with a patio in the center of the square. After 30 years, they have added 2 more stories onto buildings that should have been renovated several years ago. Luckily, there have been no catastrophic disasters to test the integrity of the buildings. I'm hoping we don't put a foot through the dry-rotted spots in the floors of the second story of Building D while I'm working here. My students arrive and we get started.
Class includes (usually) some vocabulary practice, a little grammar, several writing exercises, and some repetitious pronunciations. In order to be sure that the students understand everything that I'm presenting, I ask them to produce verbal examples of the grammar points, use the vocabulary, and use everything in conversation. I also include additional material that I bring from home, because this course is from the US military, and tends to get a little boring, if you're not into military life. Omar the puppet has yet to make his appearance in my daily classes, but we often produce short texts and narrations about him. Improvisation is included at the end of the class - almost anything to keep their interest and keep them talking - and then class ends at 9. I'm out of there a few moments later and downstairs to check on any news from management and say hi to my friends.
One of my friends is Pedrito, an English instructor and native of Peru, who tells anyone who will listen that he is a "near-native speaker." Although he's never been outside of Peru, he often starts a conversation with, "When I was in London," or "When I was in Manhattan..." Pedrito is a little bit effeminate and usually makes his entrance into a room with books under one arm and the other arm raised at the elbow with the limp wrist effect, kind of like a chicken with one weak wing. Or a butterfly flying along weakly with one tattered wing.
As I leave CIVIME, I usually grab a breakfast sandwich in the little cafeteria, then head out the door to catch another bus home. By the time I arrive home at 9:30, O has already gone to work and Celeste is asking to go out again. I change my clothes, grab Celeste, and we're out to the bike path again to do her business. Then to the open market to pay a couple of bills, get some vegetables, maybe a couple of pieces of chicken and a chewbone for Celeste. We're home by 10:30 and put away the few groceries I've bought. I toss a load of laundry into the washer and set it to work. Celeste's hair is everywhere in the apartment this time of year, so that has to be swept up, then she goes into her crate while I mop and the floor dries. While the floor dries, I knit on a sock and get the heel turned...YEAY! Then Celeste comes back out, I get the dishes done, and clean the rest of the apartment. We go back outside to play for awhile, then in to make lunch at noon.
Today lunch was a sandwich of herbed bread with fried eggplant, cheese, and tomato sauce; a salad of lettuce, tomato, and cubes of fresh cheese; and a small bottle of imported German beer. After lunch, I prepare my lesson plan for the aftenoon class, which is the same course as the morning class, and then at 2pm, Celeste and I go outside once more. At 2:30, I have to get ready for class again, so I change into my long skirt and a blouse again, look like a teacher again, and gather up my stuff. This evening I also have a conversation class at 6, so I take some extra material with me.
At 3:15, O comes home and I'm just about on my way out the door. I usually take a combi to Cuba Ave. once more, but today, O offers to drive me to work. I arrive 10 minutes early, get 10 copies of materials for the conversation class and get a bottle of water at the cafeteria. On my way to my classroom, out the corner of my eye, I see a little butterfly with a tattered wing fluttering along behind me. It's Pedrito. He tells me that he's planning to attend my conversation class at 6 pm. "When I was in Manhattan..." He smiles a big wide smile and bats his eyes at me. Okay. Flutter along boy, flutter along.
Pedrito is one of the funniest people I have ever met. Funny in more than just "haha" funny. He talks continuously, often not making any sense at all, but feeling that he's getting his fair share of attention from whomever happens to be in the room. While he's talking he waves a hand limply and smiles broadly, batting his eyes, then sashays from the room making a dramatic exit. I can't tell if what I suspect is true, because he has asked several of the female teachers who work there to marry him. But I suspect...I suspect...he's just a little more than a feminine man. One never knows, though.
The other men who teach there laugh at/with Pedrito good-naturedly. They like him, mostly, and don't want to hurt his feelings, so they never allude to his femininity, but tease him when he starts talking about the last time he was in Manhattan. The joke is that "hato" is slang for home, so when he says "Manhattan", they say, "Mi hato" (my home) over and over. If you say it fast enough it could sound something like "Manhattan". "Oh, really, Pedrito? Mi hato? The last time you were in mi hato?"
At 4:15, my afternoon class is in session and only one student shows up on time. Later, one more arrives, then another, and another. That's the thing about Peru - everyone arrives fashionably late. It's irritating to me, but I'm getting used to it some. The class today is pretty small, but they all participate and we have fun. We joke about the rat that ran out of the cafeteria yesterday. Everyone screamed and three maintenance men chased the rat around the compound with brooms, like something out of the Keystone Kops. The screams turned into laughter and everyone came away thinking it was some practical joke for Carnival. I have one woman in class that failed last month with a different instructor. I know she's in my class this month because I have very few students that fail and she's hoping that maybe I'll do something different and Rosario will pass with flying colors. I think I've just been very lucky so far. I've had really good students in the year I've been teaching here.
My 4:15 class flies by and we're finished at 5:45. My conversation class starts at 6 pm, so I go to the next classroom to get set up. Last Saturday, I only had 2 people come, so I'm kind of apprehensive about the way the class will go. Pedrito flutters in at 6 and then out again when more people begin to trickle in, until I've got a room stuffed full of students and we're dragging desks in from other rooms. We begin with a handout about manners, which seemed like a relatively boring topic, but turned into a huge discussion about what Peru does, culturally, that is a turn-off to the rest of the world, like the lack of punctuality across the board, spitting on the sidewalk, peeing in public (in the park, on the street, on the sidewalk, etc) which is a very common practice among Peruvian men, shoving one's way through a crowded city bus to get out the door before the bus pulls away from the bus stop, and throwing trash and garbage in the streets and sidewalks.
With each topic brought up, students were asked how they would handle it if they were confronted with a situation. They all had their strong opinions. Then each one had to put themselves in the shoes of the person who was dropping trash on the street, peeing on the sidewalk, or habitually showing up late to work. So interesting to see the way they understood why things are the way they are, and so interesting to see that they want to change things, but are hobbled by their cultural and familial inhibitions. This class also flew by and officially ended at 7:30, but many students stayed a bit longer to chew on the ends of their discussions. One student stayed to tell me how scared he was to mispronounce his words and talked nearly 30 minutes. Two more asked for a technical manual to be translated, but I had to refer them to another instructor who actually does translations. Then I caught a bus from Cuba Ave down to Salaverry, and from there, I took a combi home to Pachecutec. Whew! Home by 8:30!
It really is funny that we seem to plan our days around the dog. And I'm sure she plans her day around what she wants us to do, heh. She is involved with every activity, from making breakfast to creating a lesson plan. Right there, supervising everything from the floor, sometimes planting a paw on my foot or laying her chin on the coffee table. The only thing she can't do is help with the sweeping and mopping, and that irritates her. Oh, and she's not allowed to be left free and unsupervised in the house while we're at work, but I think she's used to it by now. But, Celeste was yelling to be let out of her crate when I walked in the door. I changed my clothes again and we went out to the bike path again, on the grass...Celeste is one of those Peruvians that pees in public. We ran and played a little while, then came inside to check e-mail and WHAT? Write about a day in my life? So here I am, writing. O has come home from work at 9:30 pm, and gone straight to bed. Celeste has gone out once more and is now in bed. I need to finish here and go to bed. Tomorrow morning comes early and I'll have be working till 10:15 pm tomorrow night...
Good Lord, this seems long.
Feb 4, 2008
Valentine socks
For my Valentine sock, I have chosen (drum roll please): the training sock
I hope it doesn't seem like I'm wimping out here. I went shopping for red sock yarn and found some bright and beautiful red, but after several tries and dropping stithes and all but throwing the lot out the window, I opted for the training sock. I'll still do them in a nice pinky red worsted weight yarn and with bigger needles, and maybe someone can wear them for Valentines Day (maybe Celeste!), but maybe they'll be completed and won't end up thrown across the room. I have about 3/4" in ribbing done and am hoping for the sock addiction to set in...
I hope it doesn't seem like I'm wimping out here. I went shopping for red sock yarn and found some bright and beautiful red, but after several tries and dropping stithes and all but throwing the lot out the window, I opted for the training sock. I'll still do them in a nice pinky red worsted weight yarn and with bigger needles, and maybe someone can wear them for Valentines Day (maybe Celeste!), but maybe they'll be completed and won't end up thrown across the room. I have about 3/4" in ribbing done and am hoping for the sock addiction to set in...
Feb 3, 2008
A Year in Socks
I've just joined "A Year In Socks" and am looking forward to learning to make socks. I hear how addicting they are, but have always been intimidated by DPNs. I've overcome my fear in the last little while by finishing hats on DPNs...so I think I'm almost ready to cast on my first pair of socks. I just need to decide on a pattern and go for it. I have some sock yarn in mind - alpaca hand dyed two ply yarn that we colored in November. The colorway is called "Pasture Berries" and I think it will work up into something gorgeous. I also have a skein of spring colors and a beautiful green. OH! And Bethy made a colorway that looks like a thunderstorm - I think that's what it's called, so I could make some thundercloud socks. Choices, choices...it's so hard to choose...
But thanks to Rani for inviting me to join the sock blog, and also for giving me a You Make My Day award! I'm so glad I can make someone's day!
But thanks to Rani for inviting me to join the sock blog, and also for giving me a You Make My Day award! I'm so glad I can make someone's day!
Feb 1, 2008
From Childhood
When I was a kid, I loved Beatrix Potter stories. That animals had stories to tell was not a foreign idea to me; after all, our farm animals had been talking to me all my life! So, look at this! This is a shot from Woolyworks on the family farm:
Jan 31, 2008
The Shell Seekers - Introduction
The Shell Seekers was originally written in 1984, published around 1987, and Ms. Pilcher was 64 years old at the time of writing. I have the 10-year anniversary edition, and she has made a few comments about the book. She alludes to the fact that it could have its roots buried somewhere in her own family and past. Lawrence Stern is a name that comes from a contemporary of her husband's stepfather...a real person quite removed, but in this story, a person of great importance.
Her publisher, she tells us, asked her to write a big, fat women's book; something that would be "a really good read, something people could really get their teeth into." So, Ms. Pilcher wrote about the times that she grew up in, she wrote about Britain and the social culture of the time. She wrote about families and the things that can tear them apart - greed, jealousy, self-victimization, and the need to acquire both social standing and material things. And along with all that, she wrote about love, men and women, and their human failings - all the things that make the world go round.
She also wrote in her introduction that she hoped some teenager might have had his or her fill of teen magazines and be ready for an adult book, something they could really dig into...and perhaps they would dig into her book and find it to be so much more than one of those glittery teen magazines full of heart throbs and kiddy fashion.
I have a twenty-one-year-old whom I think would love this story.
Her publisher, she tells us, asked her to write a big, fat women's book; something that would be "a really good read, something people could really get their teeth into." So, Ms. Pilcher wrote about the times that she grew up in, she wrote about Britain and the social culture of the time. She wrote about families and the things that can tear them apart - greed, jealousy, self-victimization, and the need to acquire both social standing and material things. And along with all that, she wrote about love, men and women, and their human failings - all the things that make the world go round.
She also wrote in her introduction that she hoped some teenager might have had his or her fill of teen magazines and be ready for an adult book, something they could really dig into...and perhaps they would dig into her book and find it to be so much more than one of those glittery teen magazines full of heart throbs and kiddy fashion.
I have a twenty-one-year-old whom I think would love this story.
Jan 28, 2008
The Shell Seekers
Today "The Shell Seekers" arrived at my door. It's been a long time since I read it - almost 14 years. When I opened the small box from Amazon.com, I know I squealed a bit; O looked sideways at me and asked, "What is it? What happened?" I replied to him that one of my favorite books of all time had arrived and he looked at it - then simply said "Oh."
Today, I can step into another time zone, with Penelope Keeling there at Podmore's Thatch. I hope it's a long, long read this time. The last time I read this book, I INHALED it, and then the sequel, September, too. This time, I intend to savor both of them. I'm hoping that my sister will join me in the reading, and I invite anyone else who has the notion to join here, too, and to post your thoughts about The Shell Seekers.
Today, I can step into another time zone, with Penelope Keeling there at Podmore's Thatch. I hope it's a long, long read this time. The last time I read this book, I INHALED it, and then the sequel, September, too. This time, I intend to savor both of them. I'm hoping that my sister will join me in the reading, and I invite anyone else who has the notion to join here, too, and to post your thoughts about The Shell Seekers.
Jan 25, 2008
Tai
These are photos of my beautiful girl and her loves: Raven (her black lab) and Chris, in that order I think...
Invasion of the body snatchers?
Well. It is here, just as I have known it was. It never really left, and I've felt the effects of it since it first arrived just after I returned to Peru from the US at the end of November. At first I thought it was something small and manageable, but then it morphed into more, although I didn't notice it before. I thought it was still small, but then it began to spread. Streptococcus is, luckily, a bacterium that can usually be taken care of by penicillin and its derivatives, provided treatment is early enough and long enough. Mine was neither early enough nor long enough. The doctors here only prescribe 5 days worth of antibiotics, which is not nearly long enough to do away with bacteria. That's only enough for the patient to begin to feel better. Then, usually the ill person runs out of money and can't afford to purchase more doses, so the weakened strain either runs its course or becomes resistent to antibiotics.
So my own little culture of strep migrated through the throat to the left side of my body, and established colonies just above the joints of the elbow, the hip, and the ankle, with the intent of taking over. The 5 day course of antibiotics was enough to get rid of the invaders in all but the ankle...and then 4 days ago, the throat started up again, the ankle flared up and turned a scary color, and I find myself insisting upon 10 full days of antibiotics. Don't hand me something to shut me up and get me out, unless it's a full 10 days worth of antibiotics that can do away with these damned bacterial squatters. After taking the antibiotics for 3 days now, the ankle is reduced in size, with the regular color returning to it, and the nose and throat, although the pain is gone, are producing massive coughing and other nasties that I envision as dead strep bodies being expelled after battle.
I've been tired, cranky, and miserable for the past 2 months, and finally, although I've been coughing my head off for the last couple of days, I can stand being on my feet for extended periods and ride home in the bus without feeling totally crappy. I have 7 days more of antibiotics to take, and by then, I hope that enough strep bacteria will have been thrown into barrels of boiling amoxicillin that the rest will either consent to leave or commit suicide by throwing themselves into the rush of oncoming white blood cells.
So my own little culture of strep migrated through the throat to the left side of my body, and established colonies just above the joints of the elbow, the hip, and the ankle, with the intent of taking over. The 5 day course of antibiotics was enough to get rid of the invaders in all but the ankle...and then 4 days ago, the throat started up again, the ankle flared up and turned a scary color, and I find myself insisting upon 10 full days of antibiotics. Don't hand me something to shut me up and get me out, unless it's a full 10 days worth of antibiotics that can do away with these damned bacterial squatters. After taking the antibiotics for 3 days now, the ankle is reduced in size, with the regular color returning to it, and the nose and throat, although the pain is gone, are producing massive coughing and other nasties that I envision as dead strep bodies being expelled after battle.
I've been tired, cranky, and miserable for the past 2 months, and finally, although I've been coughing my head off for the last couple of days, I can stand being on my feet for extended periods and ride home in the bus without feeling totally crappy. I have 7 days more of antibiotics to take, and by then, I hope that enough strep bacteria will have been thrown into barrels of boiling amoxicillin that the rest will either consent to leave or commit suicide by throwing themselves into the rush of oncoming white blood cells.
Jan 20, 2008
The Creation Of A Recipe
I've made a new recipe of garbanzo bean soup. Inspired by Capriel Pence's book, Bistro Soups and Sandwiches, I set out to replicate "Yellow Tomato and Garbanzo Bean Soup"...
Start with half a bag of dried garbanzo beans, soaked the morning in water. Capriel calls for a can of cooked garbanzo beans, but all there is in the kitchen is the dried ones, so after soaking for about 4 hours, pop them into a pot of water and set them on the stove to cook. Bring them to a boil, then go read your current novel till you smell burning beans in the kitchen. Cut off the fire and rinse the burnt beans under cool water. Transfer to a medium bowl and scrub out your cooking pot. Put a lot of water in the pot, and return the beans to the pot, too. Turn the fire on again under the beans, at a medium heat and take the dog out to pee.
When you return, cut up two over ripe roma tomatoes and toss them into the pot. Cut up some mushrooms that are beginning to smell and cook them in olive oil, then add to the cook pot with the beans and tomatoes. Cut up that extra chorizo sausage that you couldn't eat for lunch and toss it into the pot, too. Add a handful of rubbed dried oregano. Think about all those tomatoes you bought that are bound to go bad before you make a salad, and chop up three of them and throw them in with the beans mixture (that's 5 tomatoes total). Get a headache and pour yourself a glassful of white wine that's sweeter than you remembered. There's only about 1/2 cup left in the bottle, so dump that in with the beans, stir well, add a cube of chicken bouillon into the mix and stir well. Put on a cd of Fleetwood Mac. Simmer your beans until the Fleetwood Mac cd is finished. Start the cd again, sit down, and try a cup of your soup.
I just finished a cup of this, and Fleetwood Mac is singing "The Chain", Lindsey Buckingham is a little over the top, and I've also finished my glass of wine...it was too sweet, but the bean soup was good...though probably not what Capriel had in mind.
Start with half a bag of dried garbanzo beans, soaked the morning in water. Capriel calls for a can of cooked garbanzo beans, but all there is in the kitchen is the dried ones, so after soaking for about 4 hours, pop them into a pot of water and set them on the stove to cook. Bring them to a boil, then go read your current novel till you smell burning beans in the kitchen. Cut off the fire and rinse the burnt beans under cool water. Transfer to a medium bowl and scrub out your cooking pot. Put a lot of water in the pot, and return the beans to the pot, too. Turn the fire on again under the beans, at a medium heat and take the dog out to pee.
When you return, cut up two over ripe roma tomatoes and toss them into the pot. Cut up some mushrooms that are beginning to smell and cook them in olive oil, then add to the cook pot with the beans and tomatoes. Cut up that extra chorizo sausage that you couldn't eat for lunch and toss it into the pot, too. Add a handful of rubbed dried oregano. Think about all those tomatoes you bought that are bound to go bad before you make a salad, and chop up three of them and throw them in with the beans mixture (that's 5 tomatoes total). Get a headache and pour yourself a glassful of white wine that's sweeter than you remembered. There's only about 1/2 cup left in the bottle, so dump that in with the beans, stir well, add a cube of chicken bouillon into the mix and stir well. Put on a cd of Fleetwood Mac. Simmer your beans until the Fleetwood Mac cd is finished. Start the cd again, sit down, and try a cup of your soup.
I just finished a cup of this, and Fleetwood Mac is singing "The Chain", Lindsey Buckingham is a little over the top, and I've also finished my glass of wine...it was too sweet, but the bean soup was good...though probably not what Capriel had in mind.
Jan 19, 2008
Saturday ramblings
I had a pretty good class today. It was only the conversation, and one would think that would be the easy one. It should be a place where people can just chat, without worrying about homework or grammar all the time, where they can choose the topic and yammer to their heart's content. It should be a class where we have some fun and challenge ourselves or just take it easy and laugh. It IS all that, but wow...trying to get it started is a nightmare.
I try to make the class interesting and fun. Some days I have to all but turn handsprings to get people to participate. They seem to be content with letting me talk and talk and talk. If I did not insist that they participate, they would come every Saturday to listen to that nut-ball teacher from the U.S. talk her head off. They come with empty heads and just wait for me to fill them up with something. I bring "Omar" the boy puppet. I bring word games. I bring books on tape and cd, tv and radio shows on tape and cd. I bring conversation topics. The problem seems to be that they do not understand that there are two parts of a conversation. People also do not seem to remember how LISTENING is as much a part of communication as speaking is. The bottom line seems to be that if they are not the topic of the conversation, most people aren't interested. Hmmm.
But today, after only 45 minutes of coaxing, we got a spontaneous conversation going. Three of them, in fact! All about different topics, all mostly in English, and late comers happily joined in! What a relief! I turned my last handspring at 11:15 this morning and then the conversations began to flow! It was wonderful!
What really sucks is that next week, there will probably be a whole new group that comes and I'll have to start over again, talking till I'm blue in the face...with a side of handsprings.
Apparently the decision to have Celeste spayed is not a popular one amongst the friends and relatives. Each one bemoans the surgery. I found out last evening that nearly all of them were counting on a free blue-eyed puppy when Celeste inevitably got pregnant. They knew we wouldn't have space to raise a litter and would probably be desperate to place the pups as soon as possible, thereby practically guaranteeing a free dog for the kids. Maybe even more than one - one for the family and one to sell on the street somewhere. Hmmmm.
I have my own ideas about what a dog owner should do and what the owner's responsibility to the dog is. Celeste will never be a street dog. She will never live in a home where it is overly populated with dogs. People who do not have expertise in canine genetics and who do not have sufficient room to let them run and exercise freely should not engage in indiscriminant breeding (that would be me). And certainly there are enough unwanted dogs out there already! And here, there are enough dogs put out on the street during the day that there certainly will be indiscriminant breedings. What are people thinking when they kick the dog out on the sidewalk for the day? Hmmmm...
As I look at the jagged, 6-inch incision on Celeste's belly, I know she hurt for a while, and may still have some pain. I know it looks like I tried to gut my dog. I know it was an insult to her body and that I forced her into something I wouldn't want inflicted on me. But I still have this overwhelming feeling that I have to do the responsible thing. It will always be this way. I will never have an un-neutered dog, male or female.
My only regret is that Celeste has been dubbed "Lamperina", because of the lampshade collar she's wearing.
I've been on a time out from fiber for a little while, since I got strep. I still have pain in my left leg and some swelling, but it's better than it was. Maybe it will just take time to get over. But now, I'm ready to continue. I have almost finished Greenlee's skirt. I have a brown fleece dog in the works. I have probably enough white Celeste hair to make a life-sized fleece dog. The best thing is that I'm motivated again!
I try to make the class interesting and fun. Some days I have to all but turn handsprings to get people to participate. They seem to be content with letting me talk and talk and talk. If I did not insist that they participate, they would come every Saturday to listen to that nut-ball teacher from the U.S. talk her head off. They come with empty heads and just wait for me to fill them up with something. I bring "Omar" the boy puppet. I bring word games. I bring books on tape and cd, tv and radio shows on tape and cd. I bring conversation topics. The problem seems to be that they do not understand that there are two parts of a conversation. People also do not seem to remember how LISTENING is as much a part of communication as speaking is. The bottom line seems to be that if they are not the topic of the conversation, most people aren't interested. Hmmm.
But today, after only 45 minutes of coaxing, we got a spontaneous conversation going. Three of them, in fact! All about different topics, all mostly in English, and late comers happily joined in! What a relief! I turned my last handspring at 11:15 this morning and then the conversations began to flow! It was wonderful!
What really sucks is that next week, there will probably be a whole new group that comes and I'll have to start over again, talking till I'm blue in the face...with a side of handsprings.
Apparently the decision to have Celeste spayed is not a popular one amongst the friends and relatives. Each one bemoans the surgery. I found out last evening that nearly all of them were counting on a free blue-eyed puppy when Celeste inevitably got pregnant. They knew we wouldn't have space to raise a litter and would probably be desperate to place the pups as soon as possible, thereby practically guaranteeing a free dog for the kids. Maybe even more than one - one for the family and one to sell on the street somewhere. Hmmmm.
I have my own ideas about what a dog owner should do and what the owner's responsibility to the dog is. Celeste will never be a street dog. She will never live in a home where it is overly populated with dogs. People who do not have expertise in canine genetics and who do not have sufficient room to let them run and exercise freely should not engage in indiscriminant breeding (that would be me). And certainly there are enough unwanted dogs out there already! And here, there are enough dogs put out on the street during the day that there certainly will be indiscriminant breedings. What are people thinking when they kick the dog out on the sidewalk for the day? Hmmmm...
As I look at the jagged, 6-inch incision on Celeste's belly, I know she hurt for a while, and may still have some pain. I know it looks like I tried to gut my dog. I know it was an insult to her body and that I forced her into something I wouldn't want inflicted on me. But I still have this overwhelming feeling that I have to do the responsible thing. It will always be this way. I will never have an un-neutered dog, male or female.
My only regret is that Celeste has been dubbed "Lamperina", because of the lampshade collar she's wearing.
I've been on a time out from fiber for a little while, since I got strep. I still have pain in my left leg and some swelling, but it's better than it was. Maybe it will just take time to get over. But now, I'm ready to continue. I have almost finished Greenlee's skirt. I have a brown fleece dog in the works. I have probably enough white Celeste hair to make a life-sized fleece dog. The best thing is that I'm motivated again!
Jan 15, 2008
Forever innocent
Today's probably not Celeste's best day. She woke us up at 5 am this morning. Grrrr...I didn't want to play. So we went back to bed for an hour. Then she realized that she wasn't offered any food - at all. Hmmm...something's weird...she's usually offered food and she always exercises her pleasure at turning her nose up at it, until it becomes obvious that our breakfast is not going to be hers, and only then will she eat her dog food. But this morning I didn't offer her anything. I just let her play and then when it was time to go to work, she went back into her crate. She looked at me quizzically, and I went on to work.
When I returned from my morning class, at 9:30, I changed my clothes and we both bounced out the door. Off we went...to the veterinarian's office. She usually bounds into the office and leaps on whoever's closest, but today, she knew something was up. The office smelled different, looked different, the people were masked and gloved and gowned. Here came a technician she didn't know. He had a syringe in his hand and he gave her the shot like he was shooting a dart gun - from a distance and with a lot of force. Obviously, he was scared of her. She freaked out, but the woman who is a technician there took charge of Celeste and let me know I could pick her up at 6 pm this evening. That was the first time that Celeste wasn't just having a heyday with the people in the office, and basking in their adoration and attention. She actually wanted to go home with me. I was amazed. Don't worry Celeste. I'll be back this evening to take you home.
Señorita Celeste will always and forever be a señorita after today. No children, no lovers, no more hoards of street dogs peeing on the front door, no more security guys washing the door with vinegar to get rid of the urine odor of prospective male suitors who come to call. She will be forever sweet and innocent.
O nearly cried when I told him that today was Celeste's little surgery. We'll never have Siberian grandchildren...
When I returned from my morning class, at 9:30, I changed my clothes and we both bounced out the door. Off we went...to the veterinarian's office. She usually bounds into the office and leaps on whoever's closest, but today, she knew something was up. The office smelled different, looked different, the people were masked and gloved and gowned. Here came a technician she didn't know. He had a syringe in his hand and he gave her the shot like he was shooting a dart gun - from a distance and with a lot of force. Obviously, he was scared of her. She freaked out, but the woman who is a technician there took charge of Celeste and let me know I could pick her up at 6 pm this evening. That was the first time that Celeste wasn't just having a heyday with the people in the office, and basking in their adoration and attention. She actually wanted to go home with me. I was amazed. Don't worry Celeste. I'll be back this evening to take you home.
Señorita Celeste will always and forever be a señorita after today. No children, no lovers, no more hoards of street dogs peeing on the front door, no more security guys washing the door with vinegar to get rid of the urine odor of prospective male suitors who come to call. She will be forever sweet and innocent.
O nearly cried when I told him that today was Celeste's little surgery. We'll never have Siberian grandchildren...
Jan 14, 2008
We got hair
Yes we do. Celeste has begun to blow her coat, and I exactly WHY they call it "blowing the coat". It's because the hair blows all over the house! We have Celeste hair on the floor, on the sofa (hey, wait a minute - she's not allowed on the sofa, so what the...?), on the bed (not allowed on the bed, either), in the cupboards, in the fridge (what the...?), on the dining room table, and in the bathroom.
I've been combing and combing. She hates me for it. The metal comb tickles, I think, because I don't apply pressure. The bristled brush is completely ineffective, except around her face and ears. I've been collecting the hair and saving it for making a fleece dog. It's not long enough to spin, only about 1/2 inch long, but I think it could be needle felted into a nice tiny, flexible toy dog.
The rest of the hair, goes into the vacuum cleaner or the dust pan. Big fluffy wads of dirt and hair fill my trash can. When the recyclers (trash pickers) come to sift through the trash bags at night, they'll probably walk away with moustaches of Celeste hair.
I've been combing and combing. She hates me for it. The metal comb tickles, I think, because I don't apply pressure. The bristled brush is completely ineffective, except around her face and ears. I've been collecting the hair and saving it for making a fleece dog. It's not long enough to spin, only about 1/2 inch long, but I think it could be needle felted into a nice tiny, flexible toy dog.
The rest of the hair, goes into the vacuum cleaner or the dust pan. Big fluffy wads of dirt and hair fill my trash can. When the recyclers (trash pickers) come to sift through the trash bags at night, they'll probably walk away with moustaches of Celeste hair.
Jan 12, 2008
Mrs. Pollifax
I love Mrs. Pollifax. I discovered her by accident several years ago, when I was stalking a different book at the public library. She turned out to be such a refreshing change of pace for me that I was immediately drawn into her adventures. Who would have imagined that an elderly lady from New jersey, living in a tiny apartment with a couple of geraniums would turn international, globe-trotting spy and be such a fantastically fun read?
Mrs. Pollifax has 14 adventures...and I have read 3 of them. The Whirling Dervish in one of my favorites, so far. I may well have to invite Mrs. Pollifax to visit Peru this year.
Maybe the grass isn't greener on the other side
Today we talked about CHANGE in my conversation class. It was a hit. We went from discussing what we would change of our physical appearance in a free makeover to social and political change to what is so hard about changing. Why people do a lot of TALKING about change, but very little actual DOING. All the participants in the conversation talked about how terrible things are in Peru in general. The plight of the oppressed poor, the over-taxed middle class middle class, the greedy upper class, the uneducated, and the revolutionary students. We covered it all, I guess. Now it was time to go out and change the world from the safety of our classroom.
They were all for change, they said. Change was what Peru and the whole world needed. My question to them was, "Are YOU willing to sacrifice in order to bring about change?" Absolutely, they affirmed. Okay. I said, "In order to effect a change for the better, you must board an airplane bound for parts unknown. You must leave behind your life as you now know it. We don't know where we are going and we don't know what we'll do when we get there. All we know is that the world will be changed. Let's go right now."
Only two were willing to make that kind of change. Only two were willing to exchange the comfort of the known and familiar (no matter how miserable they thought it was) for a better, but uncertain future. Aha. Now we understood, hypothetically speaking, why those poor people in the Andes don't do something different than what they always do in the winter: witness their children and elders freezing to death for lack of a heat source in the house. Change is so scary that most people here would rather die in their beds than take the plunge and buy a stove to put in the house. The two who were willing to give up everything to effect a change called the others cowards.
To those two, I said "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." They paused to ponder that. They hadn't thought of it before. They asked for clarification. Okay, I said.
"Imagine that I am in my modest home. My husband is a mechanic. I have a dog that barks all night. We live modestly, always on a budget. My husband walks to work to save a little bit more money through the month. I take care of my own house and yard.
The house next door is larger. The husband wears a suit to work. He takes a bus to work. The wife sits by the window until just before her husband comes home, but she never goes outside during the day. What a life of leisure she has, I think. How much more does he earn when he works at his job that requires a suit? I wonder. How nice to be able to ride the bus in comfort, instead of walking to scrape up that last dime. It must be great to be able to afford to hire someone to do the yard work.
I dream about what it must be like to live in that house next door, even though I've never been inside. I WISH, I WISH I could have a life like that. The more I wish, the less shiny my own little home seems. It looks almost shabby to me.
One day, I get my nerve up to knock on the door of the house next door. I've made a pie and I take it over to offer to the neighbor lady who lives in that big house that I dream about living in. The door opens. The husband pushes past me with a hurried and tense look on his face. I hear him shout to the driver that he has to get all the way across town by 8 am...could he step on it please? Wow - I'm glad my husband only has to walk 10 blocks to work. I see the wife coming to the door. She's got a black eye and an ugly yellow bruise on her cheek from some other day. She whispers that she never has company. She tells me that she ran into the bathroom door in the middle of the night last night. She's clumsy that way. I see a little tear travel the length of her cheek.
I find out, when I wake up at 2 am, that my dog is barking all night because he hears them fighting next door. She says too loudly that he isn't living up to his potential because he in only a receptionist at an office. The bus costs too much, but he works a long way from the house. The house is too expensive to keep. They fight about money, or the lack of it. She cries about broken promises and abandoned dreams. I hear a crash and I hear her high-pitched scream. A door slams and the lawn mower starts up. I peek out the window and see the husband pushing the mower around at 3 am.
My modest little house with my jeans-clad husband looks pretty good to me now."
My little group of conversationalists look at me. They are still willing to sacrifice to make their changes, but now they think about going into change with open eyes, at least on paper.
They were all for change, they said. Change was what Peru and the whole world needed. My question to them was, "Are YOU willing to sacrifice in order to bring about change?" Absolutely, they affirmed. Okay. I said, "In order to effect a change for the better, you must board an airplane bound for parts unknown. You must leave behind your life as you now know it. We don't know where we are going and we don't know what we'll do when we get there. All we know is that the world will be changed. Let's go right now."
Only two were willing to make that kind of change. Only two were willing to exchange the comfort of the known and familiar (no matter how miserable they thought it was) for a better, but uncertain future. Aha. Now we understood, hypothetically speaking, why those poor people in the Andes don't do something different than what they always do in the winter: witness their children and elders freezing to death for lack of a heat source in the house. Change is so scary that most people here would rather die in their beds than take the plunge and buy a stove to put in the house. The two who were willing to give up everything to effect a change called the others cowards.
To those two, I said "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence." They paused to ponder that. They hadn't thought of it before. They asked for clarification. Okay, I said.
"Imagine that I am in my modest home. My husband is a mechanic. I have a dog that barks all night. We live modestly, always on a budget. My husband walks to work to save a little bit more money through the month. I take care of my own house and yard.
The house next door is larger. The husband wears a suit to work. He takes a bus to work. The wife sits by the window until just before her husband comes home, but she never goes outside during the day. What a life of leisure she has, I think. How much more does he earn when he works at his job that requires a suit? I wonder. How nice to be able to ride the bus in comfort, instead of walking to scrape up that last dime. It must be great to be able to afford to hire someone to do the yard work.
I dream about what it must be like to live in that house next door, even though I've never been inside. I WISH, I WISH I could have a life like that. The more I wish, the less shiny my own little home seems. It looks almost shabby to me.
One day, I get my nerve up to knock on the door of the house next door. I've made a pie and I take it over to offer to the neighbor lady who lives in that big house that I dream about living in. The door opens. The husband pushes past me with a hurried and tense look on his face. I hear him shout to the driver that he has to get all the way across town by 8 am...could he step on it please? Wow - I'm glad my husband only has to walk 10 blocks to work. I see the wife coming to the door. She's got a black eye and an ugly yellow bruise on her cheek from some other day. She whispers that she never has company. She tells me that she ran into the bathroom door in the middle of the night last night. She's clumsy that way. I see a little tear travel the length of her cheek.
I find out, when I wake up at 2 am, that my dog is barking all night because he hears them fighting next door. She says too loudly that he isn't living up to his potential because he in only a receptionist at an office. The bus costs too much, but he works a long way from the house. The house is too expensive to keep. They fight about money, or the lack of it. She cries about broken promises and abandoned dreams. I hear a crash and I hear her high-pitched scream. A door slams and the lawn mower starts up. I peek out the window and see the husband pushing the mower around at 3 am.
My modest little house with my jeans-clad husband looks pretty good to me now."
My little group of conversationalists look at me. They are still willing to sacrifice to make their changes, but now they think about going into change with open eyes, at least on paper.
Jan 6, 2008
Chicken Dance
Last night, we went for dinner at the house of one of O's cousins. The cousin's name is Juan, but they call him Paco (I have no idea why). After a nice meal of pork chops, choclo, potatoes, and a side of shredded cabbage on it's salty way to becoming sauerkraut, they cranked up the music and began to dance in the living room. They are all from the Tumbes area, which is right up north, only 40 minutes from the Ecuadorian border. The music was Ecuadorian, and it all sounded pretty much the same to me even though they played several different pieces.
One thing that I always notice about ethnic Peruvian dances is that they all resemble something from the animal kingdom, in particular, birds. And most notably, chickens. I may just have an overactive imagination. This is going to sound terrible, but Paco reminded me of "Panchito", the Mexican charro rooster of Walt Disney's "Three Caballeros" cartoon. Paco dances with his chest thrown out, sway-backed with the rear-end stuck out (I could imagine long tail feathers sweeping back and forth), and employs fast, fancy footwork in a crazy-legged roosterly way. To top it all off, the women dance putteringly around the rooster with tiny mincing steps with a shimmy of the shoulders, clucking away to the strutting gallito. At the end of one particular piece, half the men in the room cheered Paco, crying "Que viva el gallo!" (long live the rooster!) Heh, I knew it all along. I'm not the only one who's been envisioning the strut around the hen house. Clara Cluck is still Panchito's girlfriend in European Disney comics where she is also called Chiquita. According to the "The Panchito Song." Panchito has relatives in Peru, Brazil, Mexico, El Salvador and even in Dallas, Texas. Maybe Paco is one of them!
The men in the room, however, had imagined that Paco resembled "Claudio", whom we know as "Foghorn Leghorn". I haven't figured out what Ms. Prissy's Spanish identity is. I do know that Tweety Bird is Piolin here in Peru, but Sylvester is still Silvestre.
One thing that I always notice about ethnic Peruvian dances is that they all resemble something from the animal kingdom, in particular, birds. And most notably, chickens. I may just have an overactive imagination. This is going to sound terrible, but Paco reminded me of "Panchito", the Mexican charro rooster of Walt Disney's "Three Caballeros" cartoon. Paco dances with his chest thrown out, sway-backed with the rear-end stuck out (I could imagine long tail feathers sweeping back and forth), and employs fast, fancy footwork in a crazy-legged roosterly way. To top it all off, the women dance putteringly around the rooster with tiny mincing steps with a shimmy of the shoulders, clucking away to the strutting gallito. At the end of one particular piece, half the men in the room cheered Paco, crying "Que viva el gallo!" (long live the rooster!) Heh, I knew it all along. I'm not the only one who's been envisioning the strut around the hen house. Clara Cluck is still Panchito's girlfriend in European Disney comics where she is also called Chiquita. According to the "The Panchito Song." Panchito has relatives in Peru, Brazil, Mexico, El Salvador and even in Dallas, Texas. Maybe Paco is one of them!
The men in the room, however, had imagined that Paco resembled "Claudio", whom we know as "Foghorn Leghorn". I haven't figured out what Ms. Prissy's Spanish identity is. I do know that Tweety Bird is Piolin here in Peru, but Sylvester is still Silvestre.
Jan 4, 2008
New old books and a pottery puzzle
I got a wave of nostalgia this afternoon, and ordered "September", by Rosamunde Pilcher. I remember reading it in the '90's and loved it. That one and The Shell Seekers were wonderful books. I took advantage of a gift certificate that I received for Amazon.com (thanks to Woolyworks!). Maybe next time I'll get The Shell Seekers.
I also bought "Little Heathens" because it sounded good:
From Publishers Weekly
Kalish's memoir of her Iowa childhood, set against the backdrop of the Depression, captures a vanished way of traditional living and a specific moment in American history in a story both illuminating and memorable. Kalish lived with her siblings, mother and grandparents-seven in all-both in a town home and, in warmer weather, out on a farm. The lifestyle was frugal in the extreme: "The only things my grandparents spent money on were tea, coffee, sugar, salt, white flour, cloth and kerosene." But in spite of the austere conditions, Kalish's memories are mostly happy ones: keeping the farm and home going, caring for animals, cooking elaborate multi-course meals and washing the large family's laundry once a week, by hand. Here, too, are stories of gossiping in the kitchen, digging a hole to China with the "Big Kids" and making head cheese at butchering time. Kalish skillfully rises above bitterness and sentiment, giving her memoir a clear-eyed narrative voice that puts to fine use a lifetime of careful observation: "Observing the abundance of life around us was just so naturally a part of our days on the farm that it became a habit." Simple, detailed and honest, this is a refreshing and informative read for anyone interested in the struggles of average Americans in the thick of the Great Depression.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From Booklist
This unpretentious yet deeply intelligent memoir of growing up on a central Iowa farm in the throes of the Great Depression radiates the joy of a vanished way of life as Kalish recounts what appear to contemporary eyes as unendurable deprivations. Those who share Kalish's midwestern farm background will immediately identify with her recollections of winter nights spent under layers of quilts in unheated bedrooms. Others for whom agrarian life is uncharted territory will learn both the harsh rigors of days governed by unforgiving work cycles and the irreproducible sensual pleasure of savoring a just-picked, sun-drenched, ripe strawberry or tomato. In prose that never yields to mawkish sentimentality, Kalish details the roles of family, religion, thrift, and education in her upbringing. The complexities of wash-day chores will bring up short those who know only today's appliances. Kalish's disquisition on outhouse etiquette will simply amaze those accustomed to their own bathrooms. Mark Knoblauch
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
I ordered the paperback version, but it won't arrive until May...not released yet. Hey! What if it coud be the Purple Coo spring or summer reading selection!?
If I knew how to spell out a sigh, I'd do it. I have a new puzzle to put together - as soon as I find some good epoxy. Celeste got to playing too wild this afternoon. The coffee table flew, the flowers flew, the vase flew into several pieces...and as soon as the vase hit the floor with that "I'm Broken" sound, Celeste flew into her crate without being asked. She KNEW she'd gone too far this time. She is resting comfortably in her safe haven and I am pondering shards of pottery. The flowers are still on the floor - I'm too pissed off to pick them up right now. At least they're fake and don't wilt or mash easily.
Jan 3, 2008
Dog About Town
This was one of the cutest mysteries I've read in a long time. Randolph, Labrador Retriever and detective extraordinaire, is quite the gentleman in black with a nose for sniffing out crime and "sidewalk patè".
Humor emerges...
Celeste has finally consented to have her picture taken without crawling into her crate, without the mad face, without cringing. She took a couple of minutes out of her busy, busy day to ham it up for the camera:
And just a couple of "co-pilot" photos. Even though she's way too big, she couldn't resist hopping up in my lap to help with the computer...
And just a couple of "co-pilot" photos. Even though she's way too big, she couldn't resist hopping up in my lap to help with the computer...
panetone
This is an example of panetone. It's a fruit cake, but not the usual nasty, dry fruit cake that comes in one of those Christmas tins. This is moist and flavorful and stands between 12 and 15 inches tall. I'll try to get a picture of our last panetone before we eat all of it...
Jan 1, 2008
A toast to the New Year
Whew! The New Year celebration is done. I stayed home on New Year's Eve, and watched a movie with Celeste. O went visiting his cousins, who came here to pick him up. I bowed out, blaming my still puffy ankle. Before they all went, we had a toast to the New Year with Peruvian champagne that we got in a gift basket at work - and it was absolutely the WORST champagne I've ever tasted. Thank heavens there were seven people to share the bottle. Each of us got a little bit of champagne in a flute, raised our glasses, cried "Salud!" and tossed back the champagne. I sipped mine and nearly choked on the sickeningly sweet taste, similar to alka-selzter-plus-cold-medicine. As I looked around the room, I noticed that they all had the same look on their faces - kind of a frozen smile with bulgy eyes that relaxed once the nasty stuff was swallowed. Then everyone grinned and talked up a storm.
I've never had sweet champagne before. I've also never had expensive champagne, either, and O told me that this was cheap champagne. Vino espumado...sparkling wine. The cheap champagne that I tasted in the US had a flavor similar to beer.
Happily, we have paneton for breakfast tomorrow - YUM! O is a paneton addict, but we forgot about the one that's sitting on top of the cupboard. I like paneton, too, but I don't think I'm an addict yet. It is good, though.
I've never had sweet champagne before. I've also never had expensive champagne, either, and O told me that this was cheap champagne. Vino espumado...sparkling wine. The cheap champagne that I tasted in the US had a flavor similar to beer.
Happily, we have paneton for breakfast tomorrow - YUM! O is a paneton addict, but we forgot about the one that's sitting on top of the cupboard. I like paneton, too, but I don't think I'm an addict yet. It is good, though.
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