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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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.
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