Things I'm so obviously thankful for that writing this list is a total cliche:
-Family
-Friends
-Health
-My job
Things I should have been thankful for while living in America:
-Mexican food
-church
-my crappy car (my life undictated by bus/train schedules)
-flip flop weather ALL THE TIME
-flip flops
-washer and dryer
-central heating
-ability to speak the native language fluently
-customer service
-polite people
-empathy
-democracy
-The Thursday Night Line-Up
-frozen yoghurt
-classroom management
-anonymity
-boys who buy girls drinks at bars
-Target
-Any fruit or vegetable I want all year-round
-hugs
-free texts
-reliable electricity and water
-Starbucks
-work ethic
-pro-active attitudes
-teamwork
-Girl Scout cookies
-Oak Glen (Cali Autumn in general)
-free public restrooms
-lines (the "no cutting" rule)
-being busy
-Barnes and Noble
Things I am now thankful for:
-my new friends (volunteers, Bulgarians, etc.)
-a path in life
-the future
-my students
-new-found confidence
-wins and losses
-a new perspective
-countries seen
-countries yet to be seen
-fresh veggies
-homemade deliciousness
-free food
And the most important:
-Learning a valuable lesson and never taking any of these things for granted again.
Happy Thanksgiving!
-Age
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Dirt, It's What Poor People Do For Fun.
My childhood was an interesting one. It was normal in many ways including (lower) middle class status, 2 siblings, public school, neighborhood kids to play with, etc. But there were some exceptions that made my formative years separate from other kids in the area. Mainly, my dad and his ties to the Lone Star State.
I've always considered Texas to be a part of the South. However, having met people from the actual South, who disagree wholeheartedly, I seem to be mistaken. Texas, apparently, is its own entity, wholly unto itself and a state unlike any other. This is the place my dad grew up. He lived on a ranch of sorts, did a lot of hard labor as a kid, and understood well the meaning of work ethic and discipline. Then he moved to So-Cal with his mom.
Southern California is like Texas in only one way: it's different than any other place in the US. Cali in general kinda does its own thing and makes a heck of a lot of money doing it. My dad started a concrete construction business there when he was young and made a pretty good living for himself. There were ups and downs but, overall, he supported his family and enjoyed his line of work. But he never lost that country attitude.
He calls wrestling, wrastlin'.
He owned a tractor (one of those big, yellow ones) and taught me how to drive it when I was in Middle School.
He says things like "whatta say, kid?" (To this day I have no idea how to respond to that)
At any given time he owns anywhere from 2 to 9 "huntin' dogs" and takes them out a couple weekends a month to hunt for "coons" or bears or the occasional fox, mountain lion, bobcat. In fact, being a big fan of these huntin' trips as a youngin', I've had a rather large mountain lion run full speed towards me while attempting to escape my dad's pack of Walker Tree Hounds. Let's just say I'll never forget that day.
My father used chores to teach lessons. He once had me water four trees in our backyard. You may think that this sounds like a completely reasonable request and probably imagine me in a nice, cozy backyard with a hose and a few Jacarandas in full bloom. No. We had a couple acres of property so that our "backyard" was more like a giant field used to store flatbed trucks, construction equipment, the already mentioned John Deere, a pack of wild dogs, as well as a Motocross track for my brother’s dirt bikes. The trees were all the way in the back. Four of them, all about 20 feet from one another. While our hose was unusually long, it wasn’t quite long enough and only got within about 30 feet of the trees. So, I had to fill up a wheelbarrow with water. I should mention that this was a large, iron wheelbarrow with holes in the bottom from screws that had once been drilled into it. Anyway. I fill it up (takes about 15 minutes), wheel it over to a tree, trying very hard not to hit any rocks lest I should spill its contents and have to start over (oh yeah, this happened), and dump it into the base of the tree. Four times. This chore took me about an hour and a half. Three times a week.
The lesson? Hell if I know. When I was finally released of this torturous chore my dad took over the watering. First thing he did? Bought another hose to add to the end of the first one. Took him about 30 minutes total. Yup.
My dad rented a trencher so I could spend a weekend digging long trenches all across our backyard for a sprinkler system he would never install. We spent the next few years tripping a lot.
I can replace the tire on my car. I know when the oil needs to be changed and how to do it. When a radiator hose breaks or the fan belt snaps, I can diagnose the problem without lifting the hood.
Do I know how to put up drywall? Absolutely. Can I remove the stucco from your ceiling? Yup. Lay bricks? Sure. Shoot a shotgun and actually hit the thing I'm aiming for? You betcha.
So, all in all, it was pretty sweet having that kinda dad. I know how to do things, I have some ridiculous stories that still piss me off a little, and was able to escape a future full of cheerleading and fashion (if my mother had had her way and gotten to me before dad did). I wouldn't have it any other way.
The whole point of this was to talk about a dirt pile. I know that sounds odd cuz I went off on a huge tangent, possibly one I've already written about, but I wanted to mention that, despite our different childhoods, it does seem there is one pretty constant theme: a dirt pile.
I had one. You know you had one. And so did the kids next door. Mine was pretty big, I'm not gonna lie. Dirt is an ingredient in concrete after all, so we had a real sizeable one out back next to the four infamous trees...
We'd dig tunnels. Make mud pies. Attempt to create dirt castles. It was a real good time. Hours of fun. A child’s fascination with a large collection of nice, clean dirt just goes to show how far our imaginations can stretch. I still miss that old pile ‘a dirt.
So, this wasn't quite as cogent as I would have liked, however, you get the point. We all had interesting upbringings full of the stories that made us who we are today. But, amidst the big moves, the divorces, the lessons learned, the chores performed, the report cards hidden, the sibling rivalries, the awkward years, was one constant:
Dirt.
-Age
I've always considered Texas to be a part of the South. However, having met people from the actual South, who disagree wholeheartedly, I seem to be mistaken. Texas, apparently, is its own entity, wholly unto itself and a state unlike any other. This is the place my dad grew up. He lived on a ranch of sorts, did a lot of hard labor as a kid, and understood well the meaning of work ethic and discipline. Then he moved to So-Cal with his mom.
Southern California is like Texas in only one way: it's different than any other place in the US. Cali in general kinda does its own thing and makes a heck of a lot of money doing it. My dad started a concrete construction business there when he was young and made a pretty good living for himself. There were ups and downs but, overall, he supported his family and enjoyed his line of work. But he never lost that country attitude.
He calls wrestling, wrastlin'.
He owned a tractor (one of those big, yellow ones) and taught me how to drive it when I was in Middle School.
He says things like "whatta say, kid?" (To this day I have no idea how to respond to that)
At any given time he owns anywhere from 2 to 9 "huntin' dogs" and takes them out a couple weekends a month to hunt for "coons" or bears or the occasional fox, mountain lion, bobcat. In fact, being a big fan of these huntin' trips as a youngin', I've had a rather large mountain lion run full speed towards me while attempting to escape my dad's pack of Walker Tree Hounds. Let's just say I'll never forget that day.
My father used chores to teach lessons. He once had me water four trees in our backyard. You may think that this sounds like a completely reasonable request and probably imagine me in a nice, cozy backyard with a hose and a few Jacarandas in full bloom. No. We had a couple acres of property so that our "backyard" was more like a giant field used to store flatbed trucks, construction equipment, the already mentioned John Deere, a pack of wild dogs, as well as a Motocross track for my brother’s dirt bikes. The trees were all the way in the back. Four of them, all about 20 feet from one another. While our hose was unusually long, it wasn’t quite long enough and only got within about 30 feet of the trees. So, I had to fill up a wheelbarrow with water. I should mention that this was a large, iron wheelbarrow with holes in the bottom from screws that had once been drilled into it. Anyway. I fill it up (takes about 15 minutes), wheel it over to a tree, trying very hard not to hit any rocks lest I should spill its contents and have to start over (oh yeah, this happened), and dump it into the base of the tree. Four times. This chore took me about an hour and a half. Three times a week.
The lesson? Hell if I know. When I was finally released of this torturous chore my dad took over the watering. First thing he did? Bought another hose to add to the end of the first one. Took him about 30 minutes total. Yup.
My dad rented a trencher so I could spend a weekend digging long trenches all across our backyard for a sprinkler system he would never install. We spent the next few years tripping a lot.
I can replace the tire on my car. I know when the oil needs to be changed and how to do it. When a radiator hose breaks or the fan belt snaps, I can diagnose the problem without lifting the hood.
Do I know how to put up drywall? Absolutely. Can I remove the stucco from your ceiling? Yup. Lay bricks? Sure. Shoot a shotgun and actually hit the thing I'm aiming for? You betcha.
So, all in all, it was pretty sweet having that kinda dad. I know how to do things, I have some ridiculous stories that still piss me off a little, and was able to escape a future full of cheerleading and fashion (if my mother had had her way and gotten to me before dad did). I wouldn't have it any other way.
The whole point of this was to talk about a dirt pile. I know that sounds odd cuz I went off on a huge tangent, possibly one I've already written about, but I wanted to mention that, despite our different childhoods, it does seem there is one pretty constant theme: a dirt pile.
I had one. You know you had one. And so did the kids next door. Mine was pretty big, I'm not gonna lie. Dirt is an ingredient in concrete after all, so we had a real sizeable one out back next to the four infamous trees...
We'd dig tunnels. Make mud pies. Attempt to create dirt castles. It was a real good time. Hours of fun. A child’s fascination with a large collection of nice, clean dirt just goes to show how far our imaginations can stretch. I still miss that old pile ‘a dirt.
So, this wasn't quite as cogent as I would have liked, however, you get the point. We all had interesting upbringings full of the stories that made us who we are today. But, amidst the big moves, the divorces, the lessons learned, the chores performed, the report cards hidden, the sibling rivalries, the awkward years, was one constant:
Dirt.
This isn't actually me but it might as well be - slap that stringy hair into a side ponytail, replace the horse on her sweatshirt with the name of my little-league softball team, and it'd be a spittin' image. Also, that's one good-lookin' pile of dirt. Respect.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Busted
A comment I just received on a post I wrote over a year ago entitled 2 Guys, 1 Vespa:
You AMERICANS are so STUPID and narrow minded.You will never ever understand European lifestyle and you will never ever have the sense of style about everything,as Europeans have.It is useless to even try to understand it (don't even bother.They are completely different planets,Europe and USA). Sorry :))))))
I thought it was nice of him to apologize and I really appreciated the happy faces (or one happy face from a really fat guy with a lot of chins). He clearly felt bad about calling every American stupid in all caps. At least we're "narrow minded" in normal letters - that is a real relief.
And he's right, I will never ever have the sense of style about everything. Damn.
-Age
You AMERICANS are so STUPID and narrow minded.You will never ever understand European lifestyle and you will never ever have the sense of style about everything,as Europeans have.It is useless to even try to understand it (don't even bother.They are completely different planets,Europe and USA). Sorry :))))))
I thought it was nice of him to apologize and I really appreciated the happy faces (or one happy face from a really fat guy with a lot of chins). He clearly felt bad about calling every American stupid in all caps. At least we're "narrow minded" in normal letters - that is a real relief.
And he's right, I will never ever have the sense of style about everything. Damn.
-Age
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Chairs are Tricky Sometimes
Conversation I may or may not have just had with a friend over skype:
(I go to sit down, miss, and fall flat on my ass)
(She laughs)
(I get mad at the chair)
Me: Damn chair!
Her: Yeah, chairs can be tricky sometimes. Tricky little bastards, those chairs.
Does it want me to sit on it or not?
Does it have four legs or only three?
Does it have armrests or no armrests?
Is there proper back support?
Do I cross my legs are wrap them around my head?
Sitting is super tricky when chairs are gettin' all outta line like that. You should punish that chair immediately for confusing you and making you fall. I suggest a time-out in the corner and you sit in another chair for the rest of the day. That'll show 'im.
Me: Shut up, please.
Her: Absolutely. But, real quick, let me just tell you what I do with my couch when it starts getting a little attitude...
Me: *sigh*
-Age
(I go to sit down, miss, and fall flat on my ass)
(She laughs)
(I get mad at the chair)
Me: Damn chair!
Her: Yeah, chairs can be tricky sometimes. Tricky little bastards, those chairs.
Does it want me to sit on it or not?
Does it have four legs or only three?
Does it have armrests or no armrests?
Is there proper back support?
Do I cross my legs are wrap them around my head?
Sitting is super tricky when chairs are gettin' all outta line like that. You should punish that chair immediately for confusing you and making you fall. I suggest a time-out in the corner and you sit in another chair for the rest of the day. That'll show 'im.
Me: Shut up, please.
Her: Absolutely. But, real quick, let me just tell you what I do with my couch when it starts getting a little attitude...
Me: *sigh*
-Age
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Questions and Crazy
There comes a time in all of our lives when we ask ourselves why in the hell we have chosen the path we're on. And then we start to think, "Did I choose this path or did this just sort of happen to me? Am I truly responsible for my own destiny or do the mysterious hands of fate dictate my every move and decision? Does God have a master plan in which I'm involved and is it absolutely necessary that I need to be right here, in this place, at this moment?"
Then something shiny catches our attention and we forget what we were thinking about.
I've decided that I absolutely love and adore my students (most of them) and that I will cry my eyes out when I have to leave. But they drive me crazy! Up the wall, pulling my hair out, wanna cry, scream, curl up into a ball kinda crazy. Why am I here again? What compelled me to move halfway around the world to teach English to small children? Do I even like small children? If, right in the middle of teaching a lesson, one of my students yells, "Мис Хадауей, каква страница?!?!" one more time, am I going to throw them or myself out of our third story window?
I have another question: why do my students think I'm stupid? Seriously. When I put a pack of balloons in the back cupboard and tell them not to touch and then 10 seconds later I see them huddled in the corner with their backs to me, do they honestly think I don't know that they just went and grabbed a balloon each anyway? Do they think I'll just go, "Hmmm, there must be something interesting in that corner today, I'll just continue with my business..."? I mean, come on! (Though, to be fair, it may have been stupid of me to put balloons in the cupboard in the first place) When they command, "Misses, say (insert inappropriate Bulgarian word here)!" do they really think I'm going to say it - just mindlessly repeat them so they can giggle even louder? Was I like that when I was 12?
I often wonder at my own insanity. Because it must be insanity. My students aren't crazy for taking advantage of the lack of structure and discipline prevalent in Bulgarian schools - any child, anywhere would do the same. My colleagues aren't crazy for choosing teaching as their profession - this is a pretty typical "academic" environment for them. No, I must be the crazy one. I've chosen to do this, I now call it "life" and I laugh when my students write different English words for male genitalia on the board during math class and, when I pass by in the halls, say, "Мис, Виж! Хахахаха!!!" It's official, I'm crazy. And I'm convinced it's a necessary step in this whole Peace Corps adventure. Pure and accepted insanity.
I have to go coach girls' volleyball now. I have to lock us into the gym so the middle-school-age boys don't come in and steal all of our balls and try to slap all the girls on the ass. Yup.
-Age
Then something shiny catches our attention and we forget what we were thinking about.
I've decided that I absolutely love and adore my students (most of them) and that I will cry my eyes out when I have to leave. But they drive me crazy! Up the wall, pulling my hair out, wanna cry, scream, curl up into a ball kinda crazy. Why am I here again? What compelled me to move halfway around the world to teach English to small children? Do I even like small children? If, right in the middle of teaching a lesson, one of my students yells, "Мис Хадауей, каква страница?!?!" one more time, am I going to throw them or myself out of our third story window?
I have another question: why do my students think I'm stupid? Seriously. When I put a pack of balloons in the back cupboard and tell them not to touch and then 10 seconds later I see them huddled in the corner with their backs to me, do they honestly think I don't know that they just went and grabbed a balloon each anyway? Do they think I'll just go, "Hmmm, there must be something interesting in that corner today, I'll just continue with my business..."? I mean, come on! (Though, to be fair, it may have been stupid of me to put balloons in the cupboard in the first place) When they command, "Misses, say (insert inappropriate Bulgarian word here)!" do they really think I'm going to say it - just mindlessly repeat them so they can giggle even louder? Was I like that when I was 12?
I often wonder at my own insanity. Because it must be insanity. My students aren't crazy for taking advantage of the lack of structure and discipline prevalent in Bulgarian schools - any child, anywhere would do the same. My colleagues aren't crazy for choosing teaching as their profession - this is a pretty typical "academic" environment for them. No, I must be the crazy one. I've chosen to do this, I now call it "life" and I laugh when my students write different English words for male genitalia on the board during math class and, when I pass by in the halls, say, "Мис, Виж! Хахахаха!!!" It's official, I'm crazy. And I'm convinced it's a necessary step in this whole Peace Corps adventure. Pure and accepted insanity.
I have to go coach girls' volleyball now. I have to lock us into the gym so the middle-school-age boys don't come in and steal all of our balls and try to slap all the girls on the ass. Yup.
-Age
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