I hosted a pancake party at my house for Christmas last night. Yes, pancakes. With homemade strawberry sauce and peach sauce, frosting, nutella, whipped cream, milk, and mulled wine. I've got a good reason, too. Allow me to explain.
Ovens are not a high priority in Mexico. I've seen a few decent American-style ovens, but not too many. My oven certainly isn't one. I stuck to borrowing a friends' oven for my first three months in Mexico, but for Thanksgiving, I decided I needed to try my own.
Gas combined with flame should result in ignition. That's what I thought until I tried to light my oven. I could hear the gas flowing into the oven, I could smell it entering the rest of the house. Still, the oven refused to light. Eventually, I figured out how to do it. I had to turn the gas on and close the oven door. Once the whole oven had filled with gas, I could stick a flame in there and it would explode. The explosion left my eyes burning, but at least I had a hot oven.
With the oven lit, I had new troubles. The first one was the temperature. My oven nobs do not have numbers on them. Plus, if I turned the gas down, the flame would die and I'd have to light the oven again. I discovered that my oven really only had two temperatures -- all the way on, and off. After several times of lowering the temperature, killing the flame, and having to explode light the oven again, I figured this out.
The final problem was that my oven door wouldn't close. The slightest movement would send it slamming open. Even when I managed to close it, a two-inch crack let the heat out and the cold air in.
Somehow, I managed to bake sweet potato casserole and a pie for Thanksgiving. Both of them were soft in the middle and black on the outside. I yelled at the oven a lot. I had to keep the apartment door open all night to keep the apartment from filling with gas. I almost died. That is why I hosted a pancake party for Christmas. No Christmas cookies at this apartment. I'll save the baking for the U.S.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Time traveling
I've heard rumors that time machines do not exist. This weekend, though, I was fairly convinced those rumors were false.
My time traveling started on Sunday morning when I opened Firefox and saw that dreadful "unable to load page" message. In the living room our television had turned to snow. We called the cable company, and they said the entire neighborhood was down. It would be back in a few hours, they promised. Ha. Yeah, right.
I left for the day, and when I returned Sunday evening, my roommate said, "Did you notice? We're out of gas." No gas means no cooking and no warm showers, an unfortunate state of affairs in the winter. Puebla doesn't get too cold, but the temperatures do near freezing in the mornings and evenings. We called the gas company. They said they would refill our tank at seven the next morning. Ha. Yeah, right.
Yesterday I woke up to a cold shower. I sang songs about the snow. "I wanna wash my hands, my face and hair with snow" seemed particularly appropriate. I ate a cold breakfast, without the usual background of CNN. The gas truck never came. The internet and cable still weren't working. During the day, Ivan called for gas again. They'd be right over, they said. Ha. Yeah, right.
As I was leaving school, I tried texting a friend. The text wouldn't go through. Strange. I had enough credit on my phone, I thought. My roommate's phone (also Moviestar) was down, too. So was Ivan's.
That evening, Karen and I sat in our 18th century living room and wondered what to do. I couldn't finish making Christmas candy, because the gas tank was empty. We couldn't call the gas company (for the fourth time), because our phones were down. I didn't want to work out, because I didn't want to have to take another icey shower. So I took a nap. Then I took another.
At nine or so, Karen, Ivan, and I went next door to get some dinner. There, we asked around. Our neighbors' internet and cable was still working. Everyone offered advice for getting ours working again. They also said they filled their gas tanks far less often than we did. A neighbor brought a phone book, and we searched for a company that would actually show up and wouldn't rip us off.
Today we have returned to the 21st century. Our phones are working again. A new company filled our tank, and hopefully 500 pesos will last more than a month or two this time. The technician figured out that our cable had been disconnected across the street. He wouldn't give us our extra channels, though. Last time, we had to promise to go dancing with him for him to put up the 20 extra American channels. I guess he figured out we weren't going to make good our promise. Now we're stuck with the 40 Spanish channels we pay for. I have few complaints, though. Hot water and internet and phones are pretty great.
My time traveling started on Sunday morning when I opened Firefox and saw that dreadful "unable to load page" message. In the living room our television had turned to snow. We called the cable company, and they said the entire neighborhood was down. It would be back in a few hours, they promised. Ha. Yeah, right.
I left for the day, and when I returned Sunday evening, my roommate said, "Did you notice? We're out of gas." No gas means no cooking and no warm showers, an unfortunate state of affairs in the winter. Puebla doesn't get too cold, but the temperatures do near freezing in the mornings and evenings. We called the gas company. They said they would refill our tank at seven the next morning. Ha. Yeah, right.
Yesterday I woke up to a cold shower. I sang songs about the snow. "I wanna wash my hands, my face and hair with snow" seemed particularly appropriate. I ate a cold breakfast, without the usual background of CNN. The gas truck never came. The internet and cable still weren't working. During the day, Ivan called for gas again. They'd be right over, they said. Ha. Yeah, right.
As I was leaving school, I tried texting a friend. The text wouldn't go through. Strange. I had enough credit on my phone, I thought. My roommate's phone (also Moviestar) was down, too. So was Ivan's.
That evening, Karen and I sat in our 18th century living room and wondered what to do. I couldn't finish making Christmas candy, because the gas tank was empty. We couldn't call the gas company (for the fourth time), because our phones were down. I didn't want to work out, because I didn't want to have to take another icey shower. So I took a nap. Then I took another.
At nine or so, Karen, Ivan, and I went next door to get some dinner. There, we asked around. Our neighbors' internet and cable was still working. Everyone offered advice for getting ours working again. They also said they filled their gas tanks far less often than we did. A neighbor brought a phone book, and we searched for a company that would actually show up and wouldn't rip us off.
Today we have returned to the 21st century. Our phones are working again. A new company filled our tank, and hopefully 500 pesos will last more than a month or two this time. The technician figured out that our cable had been disconnected across the street. He wouldn't give us our extra channels, though. Last time, we had to promise to go dancing with him for him to put up the 20 extra American channels. I guess he figured out we weren't going to make good our promise. Now we're stuck with the 40 Spanish channels we pay for. I have few complaints, though. Hot water and internet and phones are pretty great.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Crazy?
While marching back from recess today, I found myself singing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" while eating a piece of pumpkin pie. One of my girls asked, "Miss, are you crazy?"
"Just a little," I said.
"Just a little," I said.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Fire!
I'm falling in love with Mexico, one three-day weekend at a time. Just two weeks after our last one, we had another long weekend. We opted for a prettier beach this time: Acapulco.
Five of us squeezed into Ivan's sport's car for the five-hour drive. We emerged in the beach-town heat sweaty and anxious to change out of our winter Puebla clothes. Nothing is as simple as it sounds down here, though.
Our hotel was right on the water, a beautiful view. It had two elevators when both of them happened to be running at the same time. Our room number was 2004. We took one look at the crowds of sandy beach-goers waiting in front of the elevator doors and headed straight for the stairs. The stairs only led us up one floor, though, and we couldn't find any more flights. Maybe, we thought, our room was on the second floor. We asked. No, the 20th.
Despite our five hours in the car, 20 flights on stairs didn't sound appealing. We waited at the elevator for a while, but it never came. Fine, we'd take the stairs. Unfortunately, we still couldn't find the stairs. We searched for a while until we found one narrow flight at the back of the building. We took it and were now stuck on the third floor. This was going to be a long trip.
Eventually, we figured out that after each flight, we had to circle the inside of the building once to find the next flight. We sped up after that. As fast as one can speed up when ascending 20 flights of stairs. We found our room and collapsed on the beds.
We took the elevator later that evening, but it proved nearly as painful as the stairs. Unbearably hot, it inched its way upward and stopped at nearly every floor. It seems we weren't the only ones who had pressed the button and then abandoned it in impatience.
The next morning, I chose to take the 20 flights of stairs instead of waiting with all of the other swimsuit-bedecked vacationers. As I was circling, I wondered what the hotel would do in case of a fire. I couldn't imagine all of the occupants squeezing down those narrow staircases in panic.
That evening, we were in our hotel room getting ready to go out when we heard a loud buzzing that I remembered all too well from my college days. We stood staring at a few minutes, willing the alarm into silence. It continued. "Should we go down," we wondered. "It's not really a fire, is it? The facilities couldn't handle that." We opened our door and poked our heads out. Nearly every other occupant of the floor was doing the same thing. We all shrugged at each other and went back into our rooms. Still, the alarm refused to quiet. We stepped into the hall again. And back into the room. Eventually the alarm ended.
By the way, we had a great time on the beach.
Five of us squeezed into Ivan's sport's car for the five-hour drive. We emerged in the beach-town heat sweaty and anxious to change out of our winter Puebla clothes. Nothing is as simple as it sounds down here, though.
Our hotel was right on the water, a beautiful view. It had two elevators when both of them happened to be running at the same time. Our room number was 2004. We took one look at the crowds of sandy beach-goers waiting in front of the elevator doors and headed straight for the stairs. The stairs only led us up one floor, though, and we couldn't find any more flights. Maybe, we thought, our room was on the second floor. We asked. No, the 20th.
Despite our five hours in the car, 20 flights on stairs didn't sound appealing. We waited at the elevator for a while, but it never came. Fine, we'd take the stairs. Unfortunately, we still couldn't find the stairs. We searched for a while until we found one narrow flight at the back of the building. We took it and were now stuck on the third floor. This was going to be a long trip.
Eventually, we figured out that after each flight, we had to circle the inside of the building once to find the next flight. We sped up after that. As fast as one can speed up when ascending 20 flights of stairs. We found our room and collapsed on the beds.
We took the elevator later that evening, but it proved nearly as painful as the stairs. Unbearably hot, it inched its way upward and stopped at nearly every floor. It seems we weren't the only ones who had pressed the button and then abandoned it in impatience.
The next morning, I chose to take the 20 flights of stairs instead of waiting with all of the other swimsuit-bedecked vacationers. As I was circling, I wondered what the hotel would do in case of a fire. I couldn't imagine all of the occupants squeezing down those narrow staircases in panic.
That evening, we were in our hotel room getting ready to go out when we heard a loud buzzing that I remembered all too well from my college days. We stood staring at a few minutes, willing the alarm into silence. It continued. "Should we go down," we wondered. "It's not really a fire, is it? The facilities couldn't handle that." We opened our door and poked our heads out. Nearly every other occupant of the floor was doing the same thing. We all shrugged at each other and went back into our rooms. Still, the alarm refused to quiet. We stepped into the hall again. And back into the room. Eventually the alarm ended.
By the way, we had a great time on the beach.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Identity crisis
My left foot is claustrophobic. But only at night. Come ten or so each night, my left foot begins longing for freedom from its sock, and I have no control over it for the next ten hours. I’ve tried sleeping with both socks on during cold nights, but I always wake up with a bare left foot in the morning. My left foot is a stubborn master. Over the years, that foot’s strange craving has become a sort of security blanket. Regardless of where I am in the world, regardless of what is happening in my universe, I know that come nighttime, my left sock will be discarded.
This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?
I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.
This week, though, I faced a crisis that sent me reeling and pondering life’s deeper questions. I was lying in bed, left sock off and right sock on, when both of my feet sent up a unprecedented message: They wanted the left sock on and the right sock off. I was thrust into an identity crisis deeper than any I’d yet experienced. Who was I? What was my purpose in life? Where was I? If my left-foot behavior wasn’t consistent, who and what could I really depend on?
I had to make a choice. I’d given up fighting my left foot years ago, but now it was asking for something entirely new. I didn’t think I could handle that type of inconsistency. I refused. As intense as the urgings were, I kept my right sock on and my left sock off. I’ve changed jobs and countries this year. I’ve met new people and adjusted to new foods. I have to have stability in at least one thing. The following night my feet also made the same unusual request, and again, I refused. My sternness paid off: By the third night, my feet were back to their usual desires. Now, I am sitting at my computer, a fluffy sock on my right foot and my left foot bare.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I've got the power
I wouldn't consider myself particularly power-hungry, but some days, the rush that comes with controlling 53 eight-year-olds is just too much to resist.
My first group or students was well-behaved for most of the morning. Walking back from P.E., they began playing, though. I stopped the line about three times, and their behavior never changed. Line behavior isn't stressed too heavily in this school, but I still prefer my students to walk quietly and without playing. When we got back to the classroom, I painted on my upset-teacher face and told the kids to sit down immediately. "Are you angry?" one girl asked. "Yes, sit down." I love teaching.
I sentenced them to "lunch detention." They eat in the classroom, and I usually allow them to talk and even get up and play when they are finished eating. During lunch detention, though, they eat in silence and they stay seated until the bell rings for recess. I told them that for each sound I heard, I would keep them in an extra minute after the bell. Four rebels ventured a word. Four minutes. The bell rang, classmates ran screaming past our door, and my students sat, looking miserable. After their minutes of imprisonment were completed, I sternly released them, table-by-table. When I finally closed the door behind the last repentant face, I couldn't help but grin. I love teaching.
My second group was in a talkative mood. I warned them that I was going to finish what I had planned, regardless of how long it took. The bell rang, and I told them to sit down. They still had to write definitions to their seven vocabulary words. 26 horrified students gaped at me. "But Miss, I have a celebration for my grandmother." "But Miss, I have to go to soccer practice." "Then you'd better get to work and stop wasting your time arguing," I said. I love teaching.
I told them that when they were finished they could just give me their books and I would put them back in numerical order for them, since "I'm the best teacher ever." They heartily agreed. "Miss Courtney, you're the /best/ teacher I ever had!"
Perhaps it's no coincidence that Snap's "The Power" has been stuck in my head all day.
My first group or students was well-behaved for most of the morning. Walking back from P.E., they began playing, though. I stopped the line about three times, and their behavior never changed. Line behavior isn't stressed too heavily in this school, but I still prefer my students to walk quietly and without playing. When we got back to the classroom, I painted on my upset-teacher face and told the kids to sit down immediately. "Are you angry?" one girl asked. "Yes, sit down." I love teaching.
I sentenced them to "lunch detention." They eat in the classroom, and I usually allow them to talk and even get up and play when they are finished eating. During lunch detention, though, they eat in silence and they stay seated until the bell rings for recess. I told them that for each sound I heard, I would keep them in an extra minute after the bell. Four rebels ventured a word. Four minutes. The bell rang, classmates ran screaming past our door, and my students sat, looking miserable. After their minutes of imprisonment were completed, I sternly released them, table-by-table. When I finally closed the door behind the last repentant face, I couldn't help but grin. I love teaching.
My second group was in a talkative mood. I warned them that I was going to finish what I had planned, regardless of how long it took. The bell rang, and I told them to sit down. They still had to write definitions to their seven vocabulary words. 26 horrified students gaped at me. "But Miss, I have a celebration for my grandmother." "But Miss, I have to go to soccer practice." "Then you'd better get to work and stop wasting your time arguing," I said. I love teaching.
I told them that when they were finished they could just give me their books and I would put them back in numerical order for them, since "I'm the best teacher ever." They heartily agreed. "Miss Courtney, you're the /best/ teacher I ever had!"
Perhaps it's no coincidence that Snap's "The Power" has been stuck in my head all day.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Fighting the clock
I stress about arriving to standardized tests, the way most people stress about catching a flight. I'd prefer to be nice and early, leaving plenty of time for sitting in the waiting room. Those of you like me, be advised: Don't take a literature GRE test in Mexico.
My test was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. My alarm sounded at 6:30, and I jumped on the mad train ride that I hoped would end with me sitting in a desk at the UDLA in Cholula.
I opted against a bus, since I didn't know the route to the UDLA and didn't want to risk anything. Instead, I called a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi company didn't answer. So I went to the nearest major road and flagged one down. The driver offered me an exorbitant price, but I was too anxious to arrive at the test to argue. I climbed in the cab.
Cholula was not to be our first stop, however. My driver told me he didn't have change, and unless I had the exact amount, we'd have to stop at a convenience store. We pulled into one, but it wasn't open, and gas pumpers refused to make change. Next we tried an Oxxo, but gas stations aren't exactly loaded with cash early in the morning. The taxi driver said he'd take care of it. He left his cab parked in the middle of the parking lot, still running. Soon, cars began to pile up behind me. I sat in the smelly cab, wondering where the driver had gone with my money, listening to the horns honking behind me, and reassuring myself with the fact that his cab probably cost more than 500 pesos. Eventually, he returned with the change.
We were finally on our way to Cholula. I told him I had to be there by 8:10. I was glad I left so much extra time; the campus was much bigger than I had anticipated. He dropped me off near what I thought was my building. It was empty. A lone man directed me to the business office. There, I was greeted by a crowd of students wearing "STAFF" name tags. That looked promising. None of them had heard of a GRE test, though. They pointed me to another building. I found myself in a computer lab filled with costumed college kids. I was skeptical. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but I eventually found a ghost who was knowledgeable. I walked until I found the "orange building" and saw a piece of computer paper with the letters "GRE" printed on it.
I needn't have worried about being late. This is Mexico, after all, and even when administering an American exam, it cannot act contrary to its nature. We stood outside in the cold until everyone had arrived. We didn't begin testing until 9:15. Our proctor solved that small problem by changing the room's clock back to 9. There, right on schedule.
My test was scheduled for 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. My alarm sounded at 6:30, and I jumped on the mad train ride that I hoped would end with me sitting in a desk at the UDLA in Cholula.
I opted against a bus, since I didn't know the route to the UDLA and didn't want to risk anything. Instead, I called a taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi company didn't answer. So I went to the nearest major road and flagged one down. The driver offered me an exorbitant price, but I was too anxious to arrive at the test to argue. I climbed in the cab.
Cholula was not to be our first stop, however. My driver told me he didn't have change, and unless I had the exact amount, we'd have to stop at a convenience store. We pulled into one, but it wasn't open, and gas pumpers refused to make change. Next we tried an Oxxo, but gas stations aren't exactly loaded with cash early in the morning. The taxi driver said he'd take care of it. He left his cab parked in the middle of the parking lot, still running. Soon, cars began to pile up behind me. I sat in the smelly cab, wondering where the driver had gone with my money, listening to the horns honking behind me, and reassuring myself with the fact that his cab probably cost more than 500 pesos. Eventually, he returned with the change.
We were finally on our way to Cholula. I told him I had to be there by 8:10. I was glad I left so much extra time; the campus was much bigger than I had anticipated. He dropped me off near what I thought was my building. It was empty. A lone man directed me to the business office. There, I was greeted by a crowd of students wearing "STAFF" name tags. That looked promising. None of them had heard of a GRE test, though. They pointed me to another building. I found myself in a computer lab filled with costumed college kids. I was skeptical. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but I eventually found a ghost who was knowledgeable. I walked until I found the "orange building" and saw a piece of computer paper with the letters "GRE" printed on it.
I needn't have worried about being late. This is Mexico, after all, and even when administering an American exam, it cannot act contrary to its nature. We stood outside in the cold until everyone had arrived. We didn't begin testing until 9:15. Our proctor solved that small problem by changing the room's clock back to 9. There, right on schedule.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Halloween in Veracruz
Thanks to Halloween and Mexico's inclination to party, I had a three-day weekend. My roommate and I spent it in Veracruz.
We drank coffee made from this contraption:
We ate fresh fish prepared right in front of us:
We walked along the beach:
And we watched a Dia de los Muertos parade. Michael Jackson was everywhere. These two were my favorites:
We drank coffee made from this contraption:
We ate fresh fish prepared right in front of us:
We walked along the beach:
And we watched a Dia de los Muertos parade. Michael Jackson was everywhere. These two were my favorites:
Friday, October 30, 2009
Pippi Longstocking is coming into your town
I'm no good at Halloween costumes. Last year, in dire need of a last-minute costume, I flipped through my sister's 20th century history book and landed on the Titanic. This year, I spent even less time on a costume. Coworkers asked me for weeks in advance what I was going to be, to which I answered "I don't know" up until Thursday night.
Jessica left early on Friday morning. Perhaps Thursday should have been spent preparing for the all-day Halloween party at school the next morning, but we chose to spend it differently. We got tortas after school, went to a Bible study in the evening, and went salsa dancing in Cholula late at night. In the taxi on the way home, a friend suggested a costume that wouldn't require more energy than I had to give at 2 a.m.: I was Pippi Longstocking for the day.
Jessica left early on Friday morning. Perhaps Thursday should have been spent preparing for the all-day Halloween party at school the next morning, but we chose to spend it differently. We got tortas after school, went to a Bible study in the evening, and went salsa dancing in Cholula late at night. In the taxi on the way home, a friend suggested a costume that wouldn't require more energy than I had to give at 2 a.m.: I was Pippi Longstocking for the day.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Weekend summary
I hate zoos. I can't think of many worse activities than standing on boiling cement in the Texas heat watching miserable animals pacing in their cages. The Puebla zoo is different, though. It's kind of like that African Safari ride at Disney world, but without all the safety precautions. Animals roam, and people drive. That's about it. Signs warn passengers to close windows during the dangerous parts.
I went this Saturday with Karen, Ivan, and Jessica. We packed into Ivan's little yellow Mustang and drove through the zoo. All was sunshine and rose petals till we got to the tiger cage. There, we parked our car to watch three sweet-looking tigers sleep.
While we were parked, one of the tigers walked over to our car and circled it. We laughed a bit, took pictures, and strained to get better views. Then, it went behind the car, and we heard a deep scraping sound. Smiles quickly vanished. We drove to safety and got out of the car to survey the damage. The tiger had bitten the car, leaving two penetrating holes in the bumper and tiger drool dripping down.
We left the zoo and went to a nearby lake to drink coconut and rum. Later that evening, Jessica, Kristin, and I went to El Mojito to go salsa dancing.
On Sunday, I joined a group of school friends on Puebla's tour bus. We took zillions of pictures and pretended to be tourists for a few hours.
Afterward, we ate tacos and churros. Then Jessica came to my apartment to watch Friends. Good weekend.
I went this Saturday with Karen, Ivan, and Jessica. We packed into Ivan's little yellow Mustang and drove through the zoo. All was sunshine and rose petals till we got to the tiger cage. There, we parked our car to watch three sweet-looking tigers sleep.
While we were parked, one of the tigers walked over to our car and circled it. We laughed a bit, took pictures, and strained to get better views. Then, it went behind the car, and we heard a deep scraping sound. Smiles quickly vanished. We drove to safety and got out of the car to survey the damage. The tiger had bitten the car, leaving two penetrating holes in the bumper and tiger drool dripping down.
We left the zoo and went to a nearby lake to drink coconut and rum. Later that evening, Jessica, Kristin, and I went to El Mojito to go salsa dancing.
On Sunday, I joined a group of school friends on Puebla's tour bus. We took zillions of pictures and pretended to be tourists for a few hours.
Afterward, we ate tacos and churros. Then Jessica came to my apartment to watch Friends. Good weekend.
Friday, October 23, 2009
An after-school work party
I found myself in a white tent surrounded by poinsettia trees drinking tequila and dancing in a long train with my coworkers. I don't remember that ever happening at my work parties in the States.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Food consumed at the Texas state fair:
-Funnel cake
-Fried peanut butter cups
-Fried oreos
-BBQ nachos
-Grande nachos
-Pokey-o-my-gosh
Bites of:
-Cotton candy
-Lemon chill
-Corn dog
-Fried pecan pie
God bless Texas!
-Fried peanut butter cups
-Fried oreos
-BBQ nachos
-Grande nachos
-Pokey-o-my-gosh
Bites of:
-Cotton candy
-Lemon chill
-Corn dog
-Fried pecan pie
God bless Texas!
Monday, October 12, 2009
A Canadian Thanksgiving
As expatriates, my coworkers and I tend to take advantage of any holiday we can. One coworker is Canadian; hence, we celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving. We divvied up dishes during Friday Lunch, and I landed sweet potatoes. Before I'd even finished my chipotle sushi roll, I knew I had my work cut out for me.
My first challenge was grocery shopping. I made my list, knowing that I'd have to be creative. The sweet potatoes were rotting, but an employee hauled out a fresh box when I asked for them. I settled on honey and white sugar as a substitute for brown sugar. A half hour search finally yielded pecans. Lard was nice and easy to find. Nutmeg and ginger were nonexistent. I found a round pan that would serve as a casserole dish. I opted on borrowing a boiling pot from a friend.
I got up early Sunday morning to boil the potatoes and make the pie crusts before church. I missed my old kitchen. I still haven't figured out if my current kitchen is real kitchen or just a closet.
I used the casserole dish for a mixing bowl, a crema container for a measuring cup, and a drinking glass for a rolling pin.
On the way home from church, I got a cheap mixing bowl from Walmart and stopped by my friends' house to borrow ginger and nutmeg.
During cooking, I used the "rolling pin" as a potato masher and opened the can of evaporated milk with a pair of scissors. I tried grinding the ginger with a jar of peanut butter, but it didn't work.
Ovens aren't a huge priority here in Mexico. Mine doesn't light, and the door falls open at the slightest disturbance. My friends' oven at least lights, although the door is no better than mine. They live a bus-ride away, though, which presented the biggest challenge yet: transporting all four sloshing dishes across town on a rickety, screeching, jostling bus.
I packed what wouldn't spill in a backpack and put the rest in a cardboard box. Then I tiptoed two blocks to the bus stop. The driver kindly helped me get in, and the bus was empty enough for me to be able to spread out.
Despite the hassle it caused, the dinner was wonderful. We managed to pull off a decent Thanksgiving meal, although hints of Mexico snuck in:
Enjoying hors d'oeuvres: apple cider, salsa potato chips, and vegetables with chipotle dip
Kristin carving our Thanksgiving chicken. Carving may be a bit generous, considering that the only complete poultry she was able to find was already cut up.
Ready to enjoy the feast: lemon pepper chicken, nutmeg roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, salad, sweet potato pie, cherry pie, cheesecake, and brownie cheesecake.
Happy Thanksgiving, Canada!
My first challenge was grocery shopping. I made my list, knowing that I'd have to be creative. The sweet potatoes were rotting, but an employee hauled out a fresh box when I asked for them. I settled on honey and white sugar as a substitute for brown sugar. A half hour search finally yielded pecans. Lard was nice and easy to find. Nutmeg and ginger were nonexistent. I found a round pan that would serve as a casserole dish. I opted on borrowing a boiling pot from a friend.
I got up early Sunday morning to boil the potatoes and make the pie crusts before church. I missed my old kitchen. I still haven't figured out if my current kitchen is real kitchen or just a closet.
I used the casserole dish for a mixing bowl, a crema container for a measuring cup, and a drinking glass for a rolling pin.
On the way home from church, I got a cheap mixing bowl from Walmart and stopped by my friends' house to borrow ginger and nutmeg.
During cooking, I used the "rolling pin" as a potato masher and opened the can of evaporated milk with a pair of scissors. I tried grinding the ginger with a jar of peanut butter, but it didn't work.
Ovens aren't a huge priority here in Mexico. Mine doesn't light, and the door falls open at the slightest disturbance. My friends' oven at least lights, although the door is no better than mine. They live a bus-ride away, though, which presented the biggest challenge yet: transporting all four sloshing dishes across town on a rickety, screeching, jostling bus.
I packed what wouldn't spill in a backpack and put the rest in a cardboard box. Then I tiptoed two blocks to the bus stop. The driver kindly helped me get in, and the bus was empty enough for me to be able to spread out.
Despite the hassle it caused, the dinner was wonderful. We managed to pull off a decent Thanksgiving meal, although hints of Mexico snuck in:
Enjoying hors d'oeuvres: apple cider, salsa potato chips, and vegetables with chipotle dip
Kristin carving our Thanksgiving chicken. Carving may be a bit generous, considering that the only complete poultry she was able to find was already cut up.
Ready to enjoy the feast: lemon pepper chicken, nutmeg roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, salad, sweet potato pie, cherry pie, cheesecake, and brownie cheesecake.
Happy Thanksgiving, Canada!
Neverneverland
This dance is proving difficult. Because my credit card was stolen last month, I can't purchase any songs on iTunes, which means I've been relying on my students for the music. I asked them to bring their High School Musical CDs, but they all forgot. One boy brought his DVD, though, so we made do with that. As he was leaving on Friday, I asked him if he wanted to take his DVD home. He said, "No, you can keep it in case they forget again on Monday."
I have far too much dignity to like High School Musical, but I've never seen the first one, and with the DVD in my possession for an entire weekend, I couldn't resist. I mentioned to a friend that I was planning on watching it, and she mentioned it to another friend. At 6 p.m. on a Saturday, when most of Mexico is hitting the bars, three coworkers and I watched High School Musical on my roommate's 42" plasma TV. We followed the show with tortas and bowling.
I guess we never really do grow up.
I have far too much dignity to like High School Musical, but I've never seen the first one, and with the DVD in my possession for an entire weekend, I couldn't resist. I mentioned to a friend that I was planning on watching it, and she mentioned it to another friend. At 6 p.m. on a Saturday, when most of Mexico is hitting the bars, three coworkers and I watched High School Musical on my roommate's 42" plasma TV. We followed the show with tortas and bowling.
I guess we never really do grow up.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
It's choreography
We live in a world that compels us to define ourselves in terms of our careers. For several years, I have wondered what I am. Am I a teacher? Am I a scholar? Am I a writer? Am I something entirely different? I've had trouble fitting myself into one box and have wondered how that will affect my future decisions.
Thanks to the upcoming 3rd-grade ceremony, though, I can now eliminate one profession from my list: I am not a choreographer. My students are presenting on United Nations Day. I tried to include them in the planning process as much as possible. Together, we brainstormed ideas for our presentation and settled on a short skit followed by a dance to "We're All in This Together" from High School Musical. Never again. I spent my entire Friday filtering ideas, mediating disputes, restarting the music (which we are getting from a DVD, since they all forgot to bring their CDs), and calming eight-year-olds who can't handle that much stimulation. I nearly gave up after the first hour. By the end of the day we had a dorky little dance choreographed, and as long as I danced it in front of them (my new MacBook Pro bobbing along in my arm so that they could hear it), they were able to follow.
I'll be really glad when the ceremony is over and I can go back to teaching subject-verb agreement and cause and effect.
Thanks to the upcoming 3rd-grade ceremony, though, I can now eliminate one profession from my list: I am not a choreographer. My students are presenting on United Nations Day. I tried to include them in the planning process as much as possible. Together, we brainstormed ideas for our presentation and settled on a short skit followed by a dance to "We're All in This Together" from High School Musical. Never again. I spent my entire Friday filtering ideas, mediating disputes, restarting the music (which we are getting from a DVD, since they all forgot to bring their CDs), and calming eight-year-olds who can't handle that much stimulation. I nearly gave up after the first hour. By the end of the day we had a dorky little dance choreographed, and as long as I danced it in front of them (my new MacBook Pro bobbing along in my arm so that they could hear it), they were able to follow.
I'll be really glad when the ceremony is over and I can go back to teaching subject-verb agreement and cause and effect.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
On Mexico, doctors, and coughs
The Mexican government takes good care of its employees. After jumping through countless hoops to get their work papers (FM3), expatriates living in Mexico are treated to all of the privileges of a native government employee. This mainly includes government health care. Sick employees can obtain paid sick days only by going to a government doctor, waiting all day in a public clinic, and getting assigned to a doctor who may or may not be qualified. Those employees who are too pretentious to go the government route (or those who actually want health care) can sacrifice a day of employment and see a private doctor.
I, however, have not finished jumping through the hoops to get my FM3 and am entirely uninsured. This bothered me slightly when I felt myself getting sick nine days ago, but I figured my cure-all treatment of airborne and sleep would suffice. In this land of swine flu paranoia, though, I should have known better.
Yesterday was an in-service day without students. An hour before dismissal, I found myself in an auditorium with the entire preschool and primary staff, listening to a lecture on the swine flu. While the doctor droned on about statistics and how any student with a cough or runny nose should be sent home, I attracted scowls and glares by my hacking cough. After dismissal, I heard my name called over the intercom. Administration had made arrangements to pay for me to see a private doctor. Was I available at 6 p.m.?
"Yes, thank you," I smiled. "Yes, I'm available. No, I don't have to go grocery shopping or study for the GRE or rest. I'd love to go see a doctor for a cough."
I opted against a taxi after realizing that my designated doctor was only a mile or so from my house. Any deep breathing, though, made me cough and made my lungs hurt. I walked along in the wind, coughing and grumbling to myself about stupid doctors the entire way.
I hate doctors. They take what is nothing and give you drugs for it and charge you money. This doctor pronounced bronchitis, probably brought on by bacteria from an untreated influenza last week. I'd kind of guessed that already, and I'd managed to live so far. I assured the doctor that I didn't have a fever, but on the walk back I decided to buy a thermometer to check, since, as my roommate says, "You've got a high heat tolerance." I guess she's right; my temperature was near 103.
I let the school have their way with the doctor and the drugs, but I wasn't going to sacrifice one of my personal days. Plus, I figured, if an entire weekend of sleep hadn't healed me, would one more day really help? I gagged down the three prescribed drugs, donned the required face mask (which I mostly wore around my neck), and braved the evil stares of coworkers when they saw that I hadn't taken a day off. I'm glad I went. Some days of teaching are just better than others, and this was one of those. Plus, I stopped for sushi on the way home.
I, however, have not finished jumping through the hoops to get my FM3 and am entirely uninsured. This bothered me slightly when I felt myself getting sick nine days ago, but I figured my cure-all treatment of airborne and sleep would suffice. In this land of swine flu paranoia, though, I should have known better.
Yesterday was an in-service day without students. An hour before dismissal, I found myself in an auditorium with the entire preschool and primary staff, listening to a lecture on the swine flu. While the doctor droned on about statistics and how any student with a cough or runny nose should be sent home, I attracted scowls and glares by my hacking cough. After dismissal, I heard my name called over the intercom. Administration had made arrangements to pay for me to see a private doctor. Was I available at 6 p.m.?
"Yes, thank you," I smiled. "Yes, I'm available. No, I don't have to go grocery shopping or study for the GRE or rest. I'd love to go see a doctor for a cough."
I opted against a taxi after realizing that my designated doctor was only a mile or so from my house. Any deep breathing, though, made me cough and made my lungs hurt. I walked along in the wind, coughing and grumbling to myself about stupid doctors the entire way.
I hate doctors. They take what is nothing and give you drugs for it and charge you money. This doctor pronounced bronchitis, probably brought on by bacteria from an untreated influenza last week. I'd kind of guessed that already, and I'd managed to live so far. I assured the doctor that I didn't have a fever, but on the walk back I decided to buy a thermometer to check, since, as my roommate says, "You've got a high heat tolerance." I guess she's right; my temperature was near 103.
I let the school have their way with the doctor and the drugs, but I wasn't going to sacrifice one of my personal days. Plus, I figured, if an entire weekend of sleep hadn't healed me, would one more day really help? I gagged down the three prescribed drugs, donned the required face mask (which I mostly wore around my neck), and braved the evil stares of coworkers when they saw that I hadn't taken a day off. I'm glad I went. Some days of teaching are just better than others, and this was one of those. Plus, I stopped for sushi on the way home.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
In pursuit of stories (and clean clothes)
Several years ago, I decided my life would be lived in pursuit of stories. Living in Mexico has certainly added to my repository. Almost any event, no matter how small, can be turned into a story.
Laundry is one of the most mundane duties in the US. Here in Mexico, though, nothing is mundane. Unless you are one of the privileged few in possession of a washer, you are stuck taking your laundry to the tintoreria, a full-service laundry mat. Self-service laundry mats do not exist here. While I have enjoyed picking up laundry that is magically ironed and folded, the erratic hours of the tintorerias make their full service much more exhausting than a self-service laundry mat.
I have the habit of waiting until the last possible minute to do laundry. While this worked fine when I could run downstairs to the dorm laundry machines any time of the day or night, it has proven inconvenient when the tintorerias are open only three days a week, from 4:30 to 6:30, and only then if nothing else is going on in the owners' lives. Last week my roommate and I, in need of clean clothes, arrived at the tintoreria only a few minutes after it had closed. The doors had been pulled down, blocking the "Tintoreria" sign, but we pounded as hard as we could anyway. When an old man finally opened the door, we held our our bags of dirty clothes and begged him to take them for us. He shook his head, but we continued to beg. We didn't see any possible reason he had for refusing our clothes. Until, that is, we peered through the doorway and found that we were at the wrong place. Instead of being at the laundry mat, we were next door to it, at an ordinary family's house, begging an ordinary old man to wash our dirty laundry.
Now I just pay careful attention to the laundry mat's constantly changing hours and try to plan my life around my laundry schedule.
Laundry is one of the most mundane duties in the US. Here in Mexico, though, nothing is mundane. Unless you are one of the privileged few in possession of a washer, you are stuck taking your laundry to the tintoreria, a full-service laundry mat. Self-service laundry mats do not exist here. While I have enjoyed picking up laundry that is magically ironed and folded, the erratic hours of the tintorerias make their full service much more exhausting than a self-service laundry mat.
I have the habit of waiting until the last possible minute to do laundry. While this worked fine when I could run downstairs to the dorm laundry machines any time of the day or night, it has proven inconvenient when the tintorerias are open only three days a week, from 4:30 to 6:30, and only then if nothing else is going on in the owners' lives. Last week my roommate and I, in need of clean clothes, arrived at the tintoreria only a few minutes after it had closed. The doors had been pulled down, blocking the "Tintoreria" sign, but we pounded as hard as we could anyway. When an old man finally opened the door, we held our our bags of dirty clothes and begged him to take them for us. He shook his head, but we continued to beg. We didn't see any possible reason he had for refusing our clothes. Until, that is, we peered through the doorway and found that we were at the wrong place. Instead of being at the laundry mat, we were next door to it, at an ordinary family's house, begging an ordinary old man to wash our dirty laundry.
Now I just pay careful attention to the laundry mat's constantly changing hours and try to plan my life around my laundry schedule.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
First room done!
I finished decorating my bedroom! I'm so much more relaxed when I feel like I'm living in my home and not in a bare apartment. With the bedroom down, all I need to work on is the office, the living room, and the dining room. That's not too much, right?
Here's my bedroom from all four corners.
(Will's scene from "Night at the Museum" made it on the wall.)
(My closet is visible in this picture. No door means that I fight a continually losing battle to keep the closet neat.)
(Makeshift vanity table created from old school desk and metal rods sticking dangerously out of the wall.)
(Those things are common in Mexico; they are made from tree bark. They smell like incense.)
And here's a little bonus: This is my desk in the office, where I study and write. Note the Don Quixote spheres.
Here's my bedroom from all four corners.
(Will's scene from "Night at the Museum" made it on the wall.)
(My closet is visible in this picture. No door means that I fight a continually losing battle to keep the closet neat.)
(Makeshift vanity table created from old school desk and metal rods sticking dangerously out of the wall.)
(Those things are common in Mexico; they are made from tree bark. They smell like incense.)
And here's a little bonus: This is my desk in the office, where I study and write. Note the Don Quixote spheres.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Forgetting my L1?
While walking home yesterday, I said to myself, "This week starts all of the TV shows." Yikes.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
School
Considering that I moved down here to teach school, my job is probably deserving of at least one post.
So far, I have no complaints. The kids were a bit rowdy at first, but they are coming in line. Planning is so much easier than it was last year. The students are English Language Learners, but they are very sharp. I have been enjoying having students who understand grammar lessons. Even though they are learning English, their vocabulary continues to impress me. One little boy came up to me today to tattle. He pointed to another girl and said, "She was saying some things, and they...offended me."
Here is a sample day in pictures:
I begin by catching the bus. It drops me off across the street from my school. The bridge I walk across affords me a thrilling view of the volcano:
At school, I wait in an empty classroom:
White board waiting for students:
I tried to set a purpose for the year by asking the children why they come to school:
This was my favorite answer. It reads "I come to school to learn how to be paleologist or arquelogist or antropologist or dancer or egiptologist." I especially like the illustrations.
Quick story: To print the "Why are We Here?" center, I had to use the office computer after school when most of the teachers were already leaving. I clicked "print," and nothing happened. So I clicked it again. This time, I heard laughter from the next room where my principal and other administrators had gathered. I realized that I had sent the page to their printer.
At the end of the day, my school looks something like this:
So far, I have no complaints. The kids were a bit rowdy at first, but they are coming in line. Planning is so much easier than it was last year. The students are English Language Learners, but they are very sharp. I have been enjoying having students who understand grammar lessons. Even though they are learning English, their vocabulary continues to impress me. One little boy came up to me today to tattle. He pointed to another girl and said, "She was saying some things, and they...offended me."
Here is a sample day in pictures:
I begin by catching the bus. It drops me off across the street from my school. The bridge I walk across affords me a thrilling view of the volcano:
At school, I wait in an empty classroom:
White board waiting for students:
I tried to set a purpose for the year by asking the children why they come to school:
This was my favorite answer. It reads "I come to school to learn how to be paleologist or arquelogist or antropologist or dancer or egiptologist." I especially like the illustrations.
Quick story: To print the "Why are We Here?" center, I had to use the office computer after school when most of the teachers were already leaving. I clicked "print," and nothing happened. So I clicked it again. This time, I heard laughter from the next room where my principal and other administrators had gathered. I realized that I had sent the page to their printer.
At the end of the day, my school looks something like this:
Day 32
Today marks the longest I have been out of Texas. In honor of my great state, here are a few things I miss:
-Hot weather: I have Puebla and Garland weather displayed on my iGoogle page. Right now, Garland reads "103" and Puebla "68". I'm cold.
-My cowboy boots: I will definitely be bringing them back next time I make a trip home.
-Dresses: I tried wearing one yesterday and nearly froze.
-Honky Tonks: No one has heard of them!
-Country music: I bought some of my favorite songs during my first week here. Now I listen to them when I'm on the bus and pretend I'm listening to the radio.
-Smoked meat dripping with sweet BBQ sauce
I met my first Texan here on Saturday. She held up the Longhorn sign, and I felt at home. And when I once mentioned bluebonnets, everyone thought I was talking about butter!
-Hot weather: I have Puebla and Garland weather displayed on my iGoogle page. Right now, Garland reads "103" and Puebla "68". I'm cold.
-My cowboy boots: I will definitely be bringing them back next time I make a trip home.
-Dresses: I tried wearing one yesterday and nearly froze.
-Honky Tonks: No one has heard of them!
-Country music: I bought some of my favorite songs during my first week here. Now I listen to them when I'm on the bus and pretend I'm listening to the radio.
-Smoked meat dripping with sweet BBQ sauce
I met my first Texan here on Saturday. She held up the Longhorn sign, and I felt at home. And when I once mentioned bluebonnets, everyone thought I was talking about butter!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A week of unfortunate events
This past week has brought me one mishap after the other. Just to delineate:
Monday:
At 2 p.m. I received a text: "Today at 3 pm ernesto will be at ur apt to move furniture to new apt". My roommate and I had just settled on an apartment the day before. My guest had just left at four that morning. I hadn't even thought of packing. Kay and I rushed back from work and found our landlords waiting at our door, ready to oversee the move. We packed, directed, loaded, moved, unloaded, and unpacked in about four hours. I love beginning my weeks with activities that entirely incapacitate me for the rest of the week.
Tuesday:
I was hoping to get settled, but the school wanted me to take a Spanish test at another campus to see if I was capable of holding parent-teacher conferences without an interpreter. I rushed through the test, like I do with all tests, and was stuck waiting at the high school for two hours until I could get a ride. I saw a fellow teacher I hadn't seen since week one, and upon seeing me, he said, "You look stressed." "I feel stressed," I replied.
My attempts for a long, hot shower were thwarted when our gas ran out. That meant no hot dinner. I wasn't feeling great, so I went out to email my family and grab a warm torta. I came back to the flood described in my last post.
Wednesday:
My 23rd birthday. I missed home. While out getting a beer with some coworkers, I discovered that my wallet was missing -- the wallet that held my only debit card, my driver's license, and a lot of my cash. I'd last had it while skyping with my sister at Starbucks. I went home and tried again to take a warm shower (we'd filled the gas tank that day), only to find that our water cistern was empty.
Thursday:
I got up early to look for my wallet at Starbucks before school. It wasn't there. I spent my first planning period talking to my mom in the US, and she was able to cancel my debit card after verifying that someone had been using it. (Without my own internet service, I wasn't able to get on a secure enough line to access my account myself). I spent my next planning period developing a budget that would allow me to stretch my money until my next paycheck.
Based on the past few days of apartment disasters, I should have known to stay away. But I was tired and hungry, and I couldn't afford to eat out, so I went home. This time, I found that the afternoon rain had refilled our cistern, giving my toilet enough water to flood my bedroom a second time. I groaned and decided to walk out and cook a hot lunch before returning to sweep up the water.
Friday:
Our campus received its second and third confirmations of Swine Flu (both of them in the grade I teach), and my imagination tried its best to convince me that my throat was swelling up and my head feeling hot. The letter I received saying that I had passed Tuesday's Spanish exam and would be receiving a slight pay increase failed to improve my mood. I went to bed at eight and slept for 14 hours.
Saturday:
Nothing bad! I slept late, wrote, read, studied for the GRE, went to a school potluck, and then went to a coworker's birthday party where I had birthday cake and pretended that it was really mine.
Sunday:
I looked forward to going to church after my awful week. I spent the morning writing before I got ready to go. At 11, I realized that I had the wrong time. I was supposed to meet my ride across town ten minutes before 11. I tried calling her, but I had spent all of my cell phone minutes calling the States to fix my wallet problem. I had not yet found an Oxxo near my new apartment, so I set out in an attempt to find one. After a bit of walking, I spotted an Oxxo, recharged my phone, and called my ride to explain and apologize. Then I found an Italian Coffee Company and treated myself to a mocha overflowing with whipped cream. I deserved it, I thought.
Here's to a new week!
Monday:
At 2 p.m. I received a text: "Today at 3 pm ernesto will be at ur apt to move furniture to new apt". My roommate and I had just settled on an apartment the day before. My guest had just left at four that morning. I hadn't even thought of packing. Kay and I rushed back from work and found our landlords waiting at our door, ready to oversee the move. We packed, directed, loaded, moved, unloaded, and unpacked in about four hours. I love beginning my weeks with activities that entirely incapacitate me for the rest of the week.
Tuesday:
I was hoping to get settled, but the school wanted me to take a Spanish test at another campus to see if I was capable of holding parent-teacher conferences without an interpreter. I rushed through the test, like I do with all tests, and was stuck waiting at the high school for two hours until I could get a ride. I saw a fellow teacher I hadn't seen since week one, and upon seeing me, he said, "You look stressed." "I feel stressed," I replied.
My attempts for a long, hot shower were thwarted when our gas ran out. That meant no hot dinner. I wasn't feeling great, so I went out to email my family and grab a warm torta. I came back to the flood described in my last post.
Wednesday:
My 23rd birthday. I missed home. While out getting a beer with some coworkers, I discovered that my wallet was missing -- the wallet that held my only debit card, my driver's license, and a lot of my cash. I'd last had it while skyping with my sister at Starbucks. I went home and tried again to take a warm shower (we'd filled the gas tank that day), only to find that our water cistern was empty.
Thursday:
I got up early to look for my wallet at Starbucks before school. It wasn't there. I spent my first planning period talking to my mom in the US, and she was able to cancel my debit card after verifying that someone had been using it. (Without my own internet service, I wasn't able to get on a secure enough line to access my account myself). I spent my next planning period developing a budget that would allow me to stretch my money until my next paycheck.
Based on the past few days of apartment disasters, I should have known to stay away. But I was tired and hungry, and I couldn't afford to eat out, so I went home. This time, I found that the afternoon rain had refilled our cistern, giving my toilet enough water to flood my bedroom a second time. I groaned and decided to walk out and cook a hot lunch before returning to sweep up the water.
Friday:
Our campus received its second and third confirmations of Swine Flu (both of them in the grade I teach), and my imagination tried its best to convince me that my throat was swelling up and my head feeling hot. The letter I received saying that I had passed Tuesday's Spanish exam and would be receiving a slight pay increase failed to improve my mood. I went to bed at eight and slept for 14 hours.
Saturday:
Nothing bad! I slept late, wrote, read, studied for the GRE, went to a school potluck, and then went to a coworker's birthday party where I had birthday cake and pretended that it was really mine.
Sunday:
I looked forward to going to church after my awful week. I spent the morning writing before I got ready to go. At 11, I realized that I had the wrong time. I was supposed to meet my ride across town ten minutes before 11. I tried calling her, but I had spent all of my cell phone minutes calling the States to fix my wallet problem. I had not yet found an Oxxo near my new apartment, so I set out in an attempt to find one. After a bit of walking, I spotted an Oxxo, recharged my phone, and called my ride to explain and apologize. Then I found an Italian Coffee Company and treated myself to a mocha overflowing with whipped cream. I deserved it, I thought.
Here's to a new week!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The great flood
I came home late tonight, exhausted and feeling depressed and homesick. I wanted nothing more than to get to bed quickly and forget everything in deep sleep. I threw my purse on the kitchen table, jammed my keys into my pocket, and went straight to my bedroom. As I stepped into my room, I felt a cold wetness seeping up my socks. My floor had become a pool.
Apparently, the toilet in my bathroom has not yet learned when it should stop refilling. And apparently, my bedroom and bathroom floors slant inward toward my bed. About an inch of water had collected there. I didn't have a clue how to mop it up. All of my towels were at the laundry mat, I had no desire to soil my few remaining articles of clean clothing, and unlike Curious George, I knew of no neighbor with a pump. I grabbed a broom and tried pushing the water toward the drain in the bathroom, but that meant sweeping it uphill around three right angles. It wasn't too cooperative.
Finally, I resorted to sweeping the water into a dustpan and then dumping it into a bucket. Although the floor looked no different, I felt rather triumphant after the first bucketful:
After sweeping up as much as I possibly could, I tried to mop up the rest by skating around on T-shirts. T-shirts, I discovered, are not too absorbent, despite their 100%-cotton labels.
Now I am sitting on my bed, and I feel almost like I am on an island. I hope the rest of the water will air dry while I am away tomorrow. Strangely, enough, my spirits are greatly improved. Nothing like sweeping five gallons of water into a bucket to lighten the mood, I suppose.
Apparently, the toilet in my bathroom has not yet learned when it should stop refilling. And apparently, my bedroom and bathroom floors slant inward toward my bed. About an inch of water had collected there. I didn't have a clue how to mop it up. All of my towels were at the laundry mat, I had no desire to soil my few remaining articles of clean clothing, and unlike Curious George, I knew of no neighbor with a pump. I grabbed a broom and tried pushing the water toward the drain in the bathroom, but that meant sweeping it uphill around three right angles. It wasn't too cooperative.
Finally, I resorted to sweeping the water into a dustpan and then dumping it into a bucket. Although the floor looked no different, I felt rather triumphant after the first bucketful:
After sweeping up as much as I possibly could, I tried to mop up the rest by skating around on T-shirts. T-shirts, I discovered, are not too absorbent, despite their 100%-cotton labels.
Now I am sitting on my bed, and I feel almost like I am on an island. I hope the rest of the water will air dry while I am away tomorrow. Strangely, enough, my spirits are greatly improved. Nothing like sweeping five gallons of water into a bucket to lighten the mood, I suppose.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
2.1
Shortly after the last school year ended, I filled in at a camp for a week. During the first day, I was surprised to find that I couldn't shape my mouth into a convincing smile. Apparently, those muscles had atrophied slightly during my year as a teacher. I didn't like Miss Craggett much last year. I determined that I would create a teacher persona that I liked or I would get out of the classroom before I became the epitomized mean old teacher.
This year, my risk is even greater. Students in Mexico do not address their teachers by their first names. Hence, I am "Miss Courtney." This terrifies me a bit. I no longer have the safety of dichotomy. Last year, Miss Craggett was one person, and Courtney was another. This year, though, I'd better make myself happy with Miss Courtney, because there's no getting away from her.
For these first few weeks, though, I'll be the mean old teacher. I need to develop a healthy fear in those 54 little rascals before we start having fun.
Although I am teaching the same grade and race as my students back in Texas, the differences are drastic. Last year I was teaching poverty-stricken immigrant children. This year, my students are members of Mexico's elite. They arrive to school with body guards and nannies. They have personal tutors. They know they are important. Many of them have fair skin, and the boys' hair is long and wavy and looks professionally cut. When asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, my students last year produced answers like "soccer player," "teacher," and "construction worker." Although this years' group had its fair share of hopeful soccer players and teachers, I also had answers like "doctor," "architect," "marine biologist," "zoologist," and "pathologist." I was impressed that they knew those terms.
If my first inklings are correct, this is going to shape up to be an interesting year.
This year, my risk is even greater. Students in Mexico do not address their teachers by their first names. Hence, I am "Miss Courtney." This terrifies me a bit. I no longer have the safety of dichotomy. Last year, Miss Craggett was one person, and Courtney was another. This year, though, I'd better make myself happy with Miss Courtney, because there's no getting away from her.
For these first few weeks, though, I'll be the mean old teacher. I need to develop a healthy fear in those 54 little rascals before we start having fun.
Although I am teaching the same grade and race as my students back in Texas, the differences are drastic. Last year I was teaching poverty-stricken immigrant children. This year, my students are members of Mexico's elite. They arrive to school with body guards and nannies. They have personal tutors. They know they are important. Many of them have fair skin, and the boys' hair is long and wavy and looks professionally cut. When asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, my students last year produced answers like "soccer player," "teacher," and "construction worker." Although this years' group had its fair share of hopeful soccer players and teachers, I also had answers like "doctor," "architect," "marine biologist," "zoologist," and "pathologist." I was impressed that they knew those terms.
If my first inklings are correct, this is going to shape up to be an interesting year.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Speaking my mind
Starting my second year of teaching, I have many things I hope to do differently. One of my resolutions is to be more assertive. I came into the teaching world a year ago as a 21-year-old kid fresh out of college. My coworkers were my parents' ages and had been teaching for 20 or 30 years. What they told me to do, I tried to do. When I didn't like it, I smiled and demurely complied. Not this year. This year, I am determined to have a bit more of a backbone. My first chance came today.
This past week was dedicated to setting up classrooms. Setting up a classroom is no small feat. Desks must be arranged, bulletin boards decorated, rules posted, centers established, and supplies organized.
Rumors were floating around school today of class sizes changing, a few fourth grade teachers moving to third grade, and a few teachers trading classrooms. Around noon, my principal came into my room and mentioned that I may be one of the ones moving rooms. Several classrooms upstairs were opening up due to the grade-level changes, and the principal wanted to put all of the third graders in that hall. I thanked her for letting me know and began planning how I would set up a new room in the mere hour and a half I would have after lunch.
During lunch, though, I changed my mind. Swapping rooms on the Friday afternoon before classes began was ridiculous. The only benefit was that all six third-grade classrooms would be on the same floor. The disadvantages seemed to outweigh that one benefit -- parents seeing unorganized classrooms on Monday, teachers stressed from having to move so quickly, insufficient time for academic preparation. The other teachers encouraged me at least to talk to the principal about my concerns. So I did.
After lunch, another teacher and I met with administration to discuss the problems. We were as forceful as we could respectfully be, and in the end, we gained permission to stay where we were. I feel slightly older this afternoon than I did this morning.
This past week was dedicated to setting up classrooms. Setting up a classroom is no small feat. Desks must be arranged, bulletin boards decorated, rules posted, centers established, and supplies organized.
Rumors were floating around school today of class sizes changing, a few fourth grade teachers moving to third grade, and a few teachers trading classrooms. Around noon, my principal came into my room and mentioned that I may be one of the ones moving rooms. Several classrooms upstairs were opening up due to the grade-level changes, and the principal wanted to put all of the third graders in that hall. I thanked her for letting me know and began planning how I would set up a new room in the mere hour and a half I would have after lunch.
During lunch, though, I changed my mind. Swapping rooms on the Friday afternoon before classes began was ridiculous. The only benefit was that all six third-grade classrooms would be on the same floor. The disadvantages seemed to outweigh that one benefit -- parents seeing unorganized classrooms on Monday, teachers stressed from having to move so quickly, insufficient time for academic preparation. The other teachers encouraged me at least to talk to the principal about my concerns. So I did.
After lunch, another teacher and I met with administration to discuss the problems. We were as forceful as we could respectfully be, and in the end, we gained permission to stay where we were. I feel slightly older this afternoon than I did this morning.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Lunch break
I am sitting in my classroom during my lunch break. The noises of the city are streaming through my open windows. The sky is clear today. Yesterday, smoke from the volcano obscured nearly all of the mountains, but today, the lines of Popocatépetl are crisp against the blue sky. In the classroom above mine, I can hear furniture scraping against the floor. My furniture is mostly set up. I am glad of that; those desks are heavy.
I just got my ID photos made. I wasn't prepared for mug shots. Hair shoved behind ears, bangs brushed back, chin tilted up severely -- I'm sure these will be attractive photos.
Back to work now.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Living in Puebla
I have been in Puebla for a week now and each day am more satisfied in my decision to move here. I doubt I will be here for more than a year, but I am confident that this one year will be a good one.
Founded in 1531, Puebla was created as a Utopian city exclusively for Spaniards. Although that dream died as soon as the Spaniards decided to enlist the services of the surrounding native Americans, Puebla still holds more of a European feel than many other places in Mexico.
In the evenings, I enjoy going to the center of town, where many Poblanos gather after work. Crowding into the main square, the people of Puebla relax and play. Children chase pigeons, clowns juggle, vendors sell everything from bubbles to chips drenched in chile and lime, and the elderly sit on benches and watch the spectacles. Bands often perform in the square, and the towers of balloons floating above them seem to dance with the music. The Puebla Cathedral, built in the 1600s, borders the square, its towers casting their shadows over the city.
Part of our teacher training on Monday included emergency procedures. The list of emergencies alerted me to how far from Texas I am. Tornadoes were not mentioned; but gas leaks, bomb threats, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions were. The active volcano Popocatépetl is a mere 25 miles west of Puebla, and smoke streaming from its crater is not an uncommon sight. Although the volcano is a constant feature of the landscape, it looks different each time I see it. Sometimes, clouds linger around the top of the mountain, creating an illusion of calm. Other times, however, enough smokes pours out to darken the sky around the mountain. Watching the volcano has become one of my favorite parts of my walk to school each morning. I do not have a camera yet, but this picture, taken from Puebla, provides a decent idea of what I see as I walk.
I could go on and on. I could describe the taco stands and how the warmth and smells from the roasting meat beckon me in from the chilly Poblano nights when I go walking. I could describe the Capilla del Rosario, a baroque-style chapel inlaid entirely with gold. I could describe some of the tradition foods created in Puebla, like mole or chiles en nogada (rich peppers stuffed with meat and fruit, fried, and then drenched in a nutty cream sauce). I think I will wait on all that, though. I need to give you all some incentive to come visit me.
Founded in 1531, Puebla was created as a Utopian city exclusively for Spaniards. Although that dream died as soon as the Spaniards decided to enlist the services of the surrounding native Americans, Puebla still holds more of a European feel than many other places in Mexico.
In the evenings, I enjoy going to the center of town, where many Poblanos gather after work. Crowding into the main square, the people of Puebla relax and play. Children chase pigeons, clowns juggle, vendors sell everything from bubbles to chips drenched in chile and lime, and the elderly sit on benches and watch the spectacles. Bands often perform in the square, and the towers of balloons floating above them seem to dance with the music. The Puebla Cathedral, built in the 1600s, borders the square, its towers casting their shadows over the city.
Part of our teacher training on Monday included emergency procedures. The list of emergencies alerted me to how far from Texas I am. Tornadoes were not mentioned; but gas leaks, bomb threats, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions were. The active volcano Popocatépetl is a mere 25 miles west of Puebla, and smoke streaming from its crater is not an uncommon sight. Although the volcano is a constant feature of the landscape, it looks different each time I see it. Sometimes, clouds linger around the top of the mountain, creating an illusion of calm. Other times, however, enough smokes pours out to darken the sky around the mountain. Watching the volcano has become one of my favorite parts of my walk to school each morning. I do not have a camera yet, but this picture, taken from Puebla, provides a decent idea of what I see as I walk.
I could go on and on. I could describe the taco stands and how the warmth and smells from the roasting meat beckon me in from the chilly Poblano nights when I go walking. I could describe the Capilla del Rosario, a baroque-style chapel inlaid entirely with gold. I could describe some of the tradition foods created in Puebla, like mole or chiles en nogada (rich peppers stuffed with meat and fruit, fried, and then drenched in a nutty cream sauce). I think I will wait on all that, though. I need to give you all some incentive to come visit me.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Emerging from the waves
I recently spent a week with some friends on the beach in Mexico. As with most beach visitors, one of our favorite pastimes was body surfing on the waves. Waiting for just the right moment, we'd catch the wave as it crested and let it push us to shore. Sometimes, though, the waves were too strong or we caught them at they wrong time. Then, they would catch us underneath them, and we'd tumble along the bottom of the ocean, the foaming mass above beating us against the sand.
This past year has treated me like one of those latter waves. Instead of riding on top of it, I found myself spinning and whirling as the year slammed me repeatedly into the ground. Now that I have been washed up on shore, I find that I am slightly scraped up and disoriented.
I seem to have landed in Mexico. I will be taking a job at the American School of Puebla, an international baccalaureate school in a town in which I have long hoped to live. I will be teaching third grade for another year down there.
We'll see what this next year holds.
This past year has treated me like one of those latter waves. Instead of riding on top of it, I found myself spinning and whirling as the year slammed me repeatedly into the ground. Now that I have been washed up on shore, I find that I am slightly scraped up and disoriented.
I seem to have landed in Mexico. I will be taking a job at the American School of Puebla, an international baccalaureate school in a town in which I have long hoped to live. I will be teaching third grade for another year down there.
We'll see what this next year holds.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
A year finished
I had lofty visions of my last minutes with my students. After a joyous end-of-the-year party with parents thanking me and students eating cake and playing Bingo, I would give a short speech and then announce that the bell would soon be ringing and we must bid goodbye. Tears would stream down the students' cheeks as they hugged me and walked to their buses.
Unfortunately, I didn't calculate in clock failure. The party started at noon, with early release scheduled for 1:25. Ending the party at 1:15 would give me enough time to send the kids out the door calmly.
I started the games at around 12:45. I figured that would give us enough time to play, eat cake, and clean up without people beginning to get bored. Strangely, though, the minutes just dragged past. Each time I looked at the clock, it read 12:45. The kids were losing interests in the games, and the parents looked ready to leave. Still, time refused to pass.
The bus announcements on the intercom and the increased frequency in which the students asked to pack up should have alerted me, but my mind was still zoned in on how I would fill up those never-ending thirty minutes.
When my sister finally whispered across the room that it was really 1:15, I managed to sigh with relief and gasp with panic in one breath. I pushed the kids out the door in one last frantic scramble, and my first year of teaching was finished.
Unfortunately, I didn't calculate in clock failure. The party started at noon, with early release scheduled for 1:25. Ending the party at 1:15 would give me enough time to send the kids out the door calmly.
I started the games at around 12:45. I figured that would give us enough time to play, eat cake, and clean up without people beginning to get bored. Strangely, though, the minutes just dragged past. Each time I looked at the clock, it read 12:45. The kids were losing interests in the games, and the parents looked ready to leave. Still, time refused to pass.
The bus announcements on the intercom and the increased frequency in which the students asked to pack up should have alerted me, but my mind was still zoned in on how I would fill up those never-ending thirty minutes.
When my sister finally whispered across the room that it was really 1:15, I managed to sigh with relief and gasp with panic in one breath. I pushed the kids out the door in one last frantic scramble, and my first year of teaching was finished.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Vegetarians
After school today, a student and I were discussing reptiles. He said, "My dog sometimes ate frogs."
"Nasty," I replied. "Did he get sick?"
"Yeah. We took him to the vegetarian, but the vegetarian couldn't help him, so he died."
Man, those vegetarians need to work on their dog-saving skills.
"Nasty," I replied. "Did he get sick?"
"Yeah. We took him to the vegetarian, but the vegetarian couldn't help him, so he died."
Man, those vegetarians need to work on their dog-saving skills.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Critters
After an eternally long day on Monday, I collapsed into my desk chair and found myself staring into a Tupperware container full of wriggling crawfish and snails.
What on earth is our district thinking? I can't keep animals alive! Animals and my family just don't mix too well. There were those two cats who gave up on us and lived at neighbors' houses, or the turtle who escaped, or the four fish who died mysteriously within five minutes of each other, or the hamster even the vet couldn't save, or the dog we had to sell, or the neighbor's fish we killed, or the other neighbor's rabbit we killed, and a whole host of other pet calamities.
If they're gonna give us animals, they should at least give us low-maintenance pets, like bettas or something. I once managed to keep a betta alive for two years. Granted, he was a sickly little guy due to infrequent feedings, but he lived. These crawfish, though, command gentle and observant care. The creatures require aged water. Aged! What animal is too delicate to withstand fresh water? And we shouldn't dream of putting a protein-based food into the aged water. It could kill the darlings. Instead, we transfer the hostile animals to individual bowls filled with aged water and wait patiently for them to individually eat their one piece of cat food. Transferring them is no small feat, either. Any animal that strains itself bending over backward trying to pinch its benefactor is not a good pet, in my opinion.
The snails aren't so difficult, but they are nasty, and they're liable to escape. Last year, a teacher arrived one morning to find them all over her walls. My coworker this year found that hers had pushed the lid off of their cage and had scattered themselves across her table.
Our time with these pets may be short-lived, though. My bad pet karma seems to have followed me into the classroom. Three crawdaddies have died in the four days we've had them, and my students keep asking to take the other ones home for supper. I haven't allowed them to eat their pets yet, but who knows what I'll say when these crayfish become too difficult ...
What on earth is our district thinking? I can't keep animals alive! Animals and my family just don't mix too well. There were those two cats who gave up on us and lived at neighbors' houses, or the turtle who escaped, or the four fish who died mysteriously within five minutes of each other, or the hamster even the vet couldn't save, or the dog we had to sell, or the neighbor's fish we killed, or the other neighbor's rabbit we killed, and a whole host of other pet calamities.
If they're gonna give us animals, they should at least give us low-maintenance pets, like bettas or something. I once managed to keep a betta alive for two years. Granted, he was a sickly little guy due to infrequent feedings, but he lived. These crawfish, though, command gentle and observant care. The creatures require aged water. Aged! What animal is too delicate to withstand fresh water? And we shouldn't dream of putting a protein-based food into the aged water. It could kill the darlings. Instead, we transfer the hostile animals to individual bowls filled with aged water and wait patiently for them to individually eat their one piece of cat food. Transferring them is no small feat, either. Any animal that strains itself bending over backward trying to pinch its benefactor is not a good pet, in my opinion.
The snails aren't so difficult, but they are nasty, and they're liable to escape. Last year, a teacher arrived one morning to find them all over her walls. My coworker this year found that hers had pushed the lid off of their cage and had scattered themselves across her table.
Our time with these pets may be short-lived, though. My bad pet karma seems to have followed me into the classroom. Three crawdaddies have died in the four days we've had them, and my students keep asking to take the other ones home for supper. I haven't allowed them to eat their pets yet, but who knows what I'll say when these crayfish become too difficult ...
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
To quote myself
A few of the things I've caught myself saying over the past month ...
-"Please don't cover your ears when I am talking to you."
-"Doing math is not sitting there making animal noises."
-"If you want to stand somewhere, say 'May I please stand there?' Don't just kick her."
-"What's 1 plus 1?" "No, it's not 1."
-(to a little boy) "Batting your eyelashes is not going to get me to change my mind."
-"Four take away 4 is 2? Think a little more."
-"Stop rolling on the floor; do your math."
-"You need to stop playing with fuzz and do your math."
-"Don't say 'na na' while I am talking to you."
-"You will use a pencil that does not have an eraser if you cannot stop spitting them around the room."
-"Just because your hand is in front of your mouth doesn't mean I can't hear you or see you."
-"I didn't give you that paper to chew on."
-"Please don't cover your ears when I am talking to you."
-"Doing math is not sitting there making animal noises."
-"If you want to stand somewhere, say 'May I please stand there?' Don't just kick her."
-"What's 1 plus 1?" "No, it's not 1."
-(to a little boy) "Batting your eyelashes is not going to get me to change my mind."
-"Four take away 4 is 2? Think a little more."
-"Stop rolling on the floor; do your math."
-"You need to stop playing with fuzz and do your math."
-"Don't say 'na na' while I am talking to you."
-"You will use a pencil that does not have an eraser if you cannot stop spitting them around the room."
-"Just because your hand is in front of your mouth doesn't mean I can't hear you or see you."
-"I didn't give you that paper to chew on."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Back to real life
My break has come and gone, taking me from Tulsa to Arkansas and all the way up to Chicago. I slept on three different couches and drove numerous miles across the country. I even had a flat along the way, making it an official road trip. The trip was just what I needed. I got to be someone other than the teacher of 22 eight-year-olds for a week. I got to visit friends and see new places. I got to sleep in, read, and sit around in the sun drinking milkshakes. Can't get much better than that.
My TAKS scores also came in during the break. Although they were not as good as I would have liked, they were much better than I expected them to be. I flew into Dallas at 10 last night. My kids and I have been yawning an awful lot today.
My TAKS scores also came in during the break. Although they were not as good as I would have liked, they were much better than I expected them to be. I flew into Dallas at 10 last night. My kids and I have been yawning an awful lot today.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
One down
After weeks of stress and illness, I made it through my first TAKS test. My last student finished yesterday at 5 p.m. I went home exhausted, feeling as if I'd sat for their exam 22 times. I guess I kind of did.
The children were tired and emotional and uncooperative today. I couldn't blame them much; we ought to have the day off after one like yesterday.
One quick story:
Last week we studied geography. When looking at a map of the United States, one little boy asked, "Why is Hannah Montana on here?" I tried to explain that the original Montana was a state, not a teen singer; I'm not sure he understood, though. Thanks a lot, pop culture.
The children were tired and emotional and uncooperative today. I couldn't blame them much; we ought to have the day off after one like yesterday.
One quick story:
Last week we studied geography. When looking at a map of the United States, one little boy asked, "Why is Hannah Montana on here?" I tried to explain that the original Montana was a state, not a teen singer; I'm not sure he understood, though. Thanks a lot, pop culture.
Friday, February 6, 2009
TAKS
Growing up, I pitied my parents for their job choice. During the most beautiful months of the year, they buried themselves in receipts and W2's. The spring months were lost to the stress of tax season.
Now, I am facing my own TAKS season. In just three weeks, my students will take their reading TAKS (Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills) test. My life has been reduced to nothing but preparations. I am tutoring students four afternoons on weekdays and three hours on Saturdays. Any planning time I have during the day I fill with extra tutoring sessions. After school each day, my team and I create battle plans, divvying up students and targeting specific skills they must develop in the next three weeks. Planning for the actual teaching I am supposed to do must happen magically during the day, which means it waits till 5 or 5:30.
The stress is impacting everyone. Teachers are fighting hard to avoid taking sick days. Students are stressed and ill. Yesterday, I had trouble teaching because the students' coughing overpowered my own voice. By noon, 15 students at the school had left with fevers. Between illness and stress, I lie in bed tossing for most of the night. Last night I resorted to NyQuil.
And after this test is over, we start preparing for the math TAKS. So, like my parents, I sacrifice my spring to the all-consuming god of TAKS season. Alas.
Now, I am facing my own TAKS season. In just three weeks, my students will take their reading TAKS (Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills) test. My life has been reduced to nothing but preparations. I am tutoring students four afternoons on weekdays and three hours on Saturdays. Any planning time I have during the day I fill with extra tutoring sessions. After school each day, my team and I create battle plans, divvying up students and targeting specific skills they must develop in the next three weeks. Planning for the actual teaching I am supposed to do must happen magically during the day, which means it waits till 5 or 5:30.
The stress is impacting everyone. Teachers are fighting hard to avoid taking sick days. Students are stressed and ill. Yesterday, I had trouble teaching because the students' coughing overpowered my own voice. By noon, 15 students at the school had left with fevers. Between illness and stress, I lie in bed tossing for most of the night. Last night I resorted to NyQuil.
And after this test is over, we start preparing for the math TAKS. So, like my parents, I sacrifice my spring to the all-consuming god of TAKS season. Alas.
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