the silence is a painful one

there is a stillness at night, after the kids go to bed. we've given a squeeze to cely, a little kiss to her dimpled cheeks, and played some sort of half hug, half hand shake wrestle with pedro before sending them off to sleep. it really ended up being a much better day, till, of course, the end.

well, actually, i started off fearing the day. i stayed in bed as long as possible and then persuaded my parents (without too much effort) to not get pedro up right away b/c i just wasn't ready to be around him. i won't recount each individual struggle of the morning, but suffice it to say, i wasn't sure i could take him to bowl today, much less make it the next 4 days here. but a phone conversation with a lady who has worked with adoptions helped me some. and the bowling went pretty well. really, i think pedro needs to be resocialized. he has these instantaneous "macho" reactions to certain situations. he is threatened and negative when he doesn't feel good in a specific situation, and he is rude and aggressive when he does. but not always. there is something good there. i could see it. but dear Lord, it is going to take years and years of consistant, forgiving love to root out the poison his previous years have fed him.

tonight we ended the evening by watching the "grid iron gang," a movie about some delinquent teenagers whose social worker/guard/personal guide forms a football team with them to give them some discipline and teamwork skills. sounds like a good plot, but pedro is especially vocal during all the parts when there is fighting and gangbanging and gunshot. "Yeah, that's what I'd do," he shouts as one kid shoots his stepfather for beating up the mother.

"Man, I'd quit, too, if my coach pushed me around like that," he says.

There were a host of other comments, all of which made me cringe--and gaze up in shock that my parents didn't stop the movie or say anything to correct him.

Oh, another doozy of a comment: "Forgive? That's not a word I use very often." He states this as the coach/social worker guy reaches out to a kid whose struggling with some death due to gang violence.

What does one say? How do you resocialize this boy, now my brother, if he decides to be, to completely change his world view of what it means to be a man? Of what it means to be strong?

And then the movie ends with Hollywood-like perfection, and Pedro tells Joeps and I goodnight, teases us until finally surrendering a hug to us, goes down the hall, and suddenly I hear my sister KC saying, "Open the door please. I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't mean it. I was teasing you, like you tease me. You know I love you."

The hideously painful conversation my dad and I overheard went on for 5 or 10 minutes, ending with my sister bawling her eyes out at Pedro's door, repeating over and over again, "Come out. Give me respect. You know I wasn't trying to insult you. I love you so much, and I said I was sorry . . .Open the door and say you understand to my face . . .No one thinks you're a chicken." And finally, he opens the door.

I can't even say how much it tears my hearts to shreds to hear someone make my sister cry like that. And this person is my brother. He is. I have to find enough strength in myself to love him, to show him what love should be, that even when he is completely, utter ridiculous, hurtful, and cruel, that we will love him anyway.

It's the hardest thing I've done since teaching in Cleveland. But somehow, I don't feel quite as hopeless and furious as yesterday.

strong enough

I seriously might lose it here. Pedro's comments make my stomach twist in knots and my smiles fade. It's not always like this; there are moments when I feel hopeful. But mostly I just don't want to be around him. And honestly, I don't know how KC can be so patient and nice. She got a new phone today, an iPhone where you can record messages to yourself and have them play back on audio. Pedro's message was, "This is Pedro Campos . . ."and then something else in Spanish. I didn't understand all of it. I want to smack him. How dare he insult my family by not even acknowledging his new last name. Legally, he is a Sullivan now. I don't know if it's his age, his previous background, or just a general indifference to the feelings of others (read "asshole-ness") that makes him say and do things that hurt. I see how exhausted my parents are, my mom shy in her own home, my father snapping out comments unlike any I've ever heard. KC seems pretty steady for the most part, having faith that there is some hope. I had hope, till I came home for Thanksgiving, and he was such a dick to my parents and to basically everyone in the hospital. I dreaded coming home, but then he came to the airport to get me with KC, and we had a decent time. Christmas Eve prompted some drama b/c of an argument with my parents about a coat. Last night we got into some sort of long discussion about religion, how he doesn't believe in the Catholic faith, is going to make up things to say in reconciliation, etc. He doesn't get why we don't have food and "entertainment" during our masses like they do at his old Baptist church. His other church told him that Catholics worship Mary and the saints and that they make up stuff that's not found in the Bible. Most Catholic teachings can be found in the Bible, but Pedro has said he has no interest in looking up that. After that talk, he took a shower and went to bed at 8 p.m. Wouldn't talk to anyone. I played a game with him on the Wii in front of KC and Cely tonight. He was such a jerk about it, won't leave Cely alone, insulting me and playing for my Mii character. Granted, I took a turn with his, but I can see why kids don't want to come play with him. He's an ass. He has this cocky, machismo attitude like he's better than everyone, but he isn't. He isn't better than anyone. In fact, he pretty much sucks at everything except being an ass much of the time.

He does have some decent qualities. I've seen him be compassionate to the frail, and he likes to laugh. And I know he feels like a fool when it comes to school work. But he acts like he's going to go back to his biological family when he gets older; he wants KC to come meet them, too. And he uses his biological last name; it's a slap in the face--like it doesn't mean shit to him that my parents turned their whole fucking lives upside down for him, and he doesn't give a fuck.

I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this, to be here and try to care when I feel like a tightly strung cord on an instrument, ready to snap. My gut hurts. I don't feel rested. I want my parents to be happy and relaxed again, and I want to not feel so uncertain that this situation is never going to get better.

oh, my head is pounding

I hope that doesn't signal an upcoming illness. I'm feeling pretty flimsy right now. Shaky even, but that could be more based on the fact that I could use some lunch.

I'm in Amarillo now, sitting at Barnes and Noble with my dad, who came here to get help on our internet issues. It's so strange to be here in a way, and yet almost comfortably familiar. I don't hate being here like I used to. I don't feel so unlike myself. In fact, I was telling KC--I might consider moving home. I'm shocked that I can even think or say that, but there it is--weighing on my heart and mind like it's a good idea. And maybe it is. Do I really want to only be a part of my new brother and sister's lives on the holidays? Do I really want to continue living 1200 miles from the people I love most in the world? Not really.

Of course, there are tons of other things I think about, too--reasons to stay where I'm at in OH. For one, I have some good friends there, friends I don't have in Amarillo now. KC will eventually not live here anymore. I don't know where I'd teach here; I'd prefer to stay in a private school, but there aren't too many options here. Catholics are such a minority here; we're the "spawn of Satan" pretty much, and I don't know how I feel about coming back to an area with that attitude. I despised it growing up.

Oh, the things to consider! Where are the days when I knew the next step in my life?

Moments of Pride

Ok, I just have share my ENORMOUS excitement in my new little creations: poems for my students for Christmas!

So I realize that most people wouldn't find this excitement-worthy, but I've been pondering how I might somewhat cleverly and easily write my students the little Christmas note I always make for them. Tonight I designed a note via Microsoft Publisher and found a simple way to adapt the message to specifically address each child. I'm so excited to give them these small momentos . . .granted they might not be as excited as I am, but I'm finding that I love giving people poems as gifts. Maybe a few of them will be touched to receive a specialized poem written just for them.

Ah, the benefits of having only 47 students . . .

Where'd the Fun Times Go?

I've had one of those weekends where I should have gotten a lot more done than I did. And of course that makes me wonder why because it wasn't like I didn't do something fun this weekend.

So--I was wondering, as I did the dishes (not listed under my fun weekend activities), why I didn't get much done. Well, I think I'm having trouble letting work go. I can think of about 30 things I need to do for school and about 15 that I'd like to get done for school, and it just seems easier to shaft the fun things to the side. Well, that's at least part of it.

I had this sudden memory of myself in the back of a car, slightly drunk, and singing along with the other car occupants our own version of "Soon and Very Soon." And then I remembered how hard I laughed that night, how I got all dressed up and was surrounded by single, fun friends. We went dancing and yes, drinking, with abandon down in Mt. Adams at the Pavilion with the slightly frightening women (supposedly sexy) painted on the walls. It was so fabulous, and I thought it was the harbinger of great times to come.

Alas, how fleeting such times are. And now I'm watching The Holiday--bringing back more memories of good times . . ."Well, hello, big dollop."

Where'd the roommates and the single people and the good times go?

Sigh. Now I realize why some people don't want to ever grow up.

Frivols

I think that's a word anyway.

So I've been busy packing tonight, after I was finally able to drag myself away from school after conferences. Somehow, even though I didn't get to school till noon, staying there till 8:30 felt like a full day plus. But the conferences proceeded really well, or at least I think they did.

Now that my packing is done (I think anyway), I find I need to unwind my brain a bit. It churns furiously when I'm preparing to travel some place b/c I'm desperately trying to not forget anything. In the interest of saving some money and in proving to myself that I can still pack relatively lightly (and in the interest of using it again), I'm using the backpack I purchased for my trip to Europe. If I can make it through three countries and two weeks of travel with two bags, I can surely do it for 5 days--especially since I can mooch off my family's stuff, too. But still, I worry that I'm forgetting something important. Or more importantly, something expensive.

Also on my list of minor decisions to make by morning is whether or not to take the book I began last night. It's entitled The Secret History of the Pink Carnation. It has an intriguing plot, but it's so generically chic lit and cutesy that I feel like I do when all I eat is sugar--a little sick to my stomach and needing something more substantial. Of course, I still need to finish Bill Bryson. I've been plugging away at it; almost there now. But back to the Pink C--well, even though the author is a Yale grad and a Harvard PhD student, does that really make it worth reading? Do good vocab choices merit worth when the characters are almost ridiculously simplistic. i.e. Guy and girl run into each other, exchange heated conversations that in reality barely cover up their throbbing attraction to each other. They think they hate each other, but find themselves daydreaming endlessly of one another and wondering why it bothers them to imagine that the other seems to dislike them. Gross. I think I liked stories like that in middle school. Maybe high school too. But now I'd like a little more . . .adult action and less junior high stuff.

Well, I must be to bed.

blooms in the dying time

Wow. It is absolutely phenomenal how one's life swings in different directions so swiftly. Last week at this time I was mourning the fact that I wouldn't see my family for Thanksgiving. Now not only am I getting to fly home via help from my "thanksgiving angel," but I felt the warmth of loving friends all around me tonight.

First, my TA. Last Monday I had my writing class and shared very briefly my disappointment in being unable to go home. Tuesday morning I had an email from a lady in my small writing group asking very politely "If you don't mind me asking, is the reason you're not going home for Thanksgiving because of money?" As I didn't really mind her asking (knowing what I do know about her, she's not a nosy woman), I admitted yes. Her reply, "Well, I know this will sound odd, and I'll give you the essay answer why if you want, but I really want and need to offer you $500 to help you get a plane ticket home. No repayment necessary."

Come again?? Really? You want to just randomly give me money? Why? But in my heart, I kind of knew why. However, even with that amount, should I decide to accept it, I couldn't make it home to Amarillo still. It's more like $800 to get there.

So as I often do when I have a crazy story, I call KC. To my utter astonishment, her response is less of a "no way . . .too bad it still costs so much." It was more of a "Oh, that's so crazy! I was looking up flights for you, and I found one for $440 to Lubbock," which is about 1 1/2 hours from my home. I don't know if you believe in signs, but I felt like this might be one that I should go home. As for the reason why, I have no idea. It just seemed too coincidental to have this offer for a plane ticket and an affordable way to get home all in same day and not have it mean something.

So I accepted the money. I know I don't deserve it, but I guess that's part of what makes it so special . . .the sheer grace of it all.

And not to detract from my angel moment, but just my writing class in general tonight. I felt so incredibly, unexpectedly blessed again to have so many people there to support me. Karen, Tess, Leah, and Ryleigh drove me down, and Alison and Chereia joined us soon after. I think everyone was pretty amazed to see so many people come . . .I just felt honored. I felt such admiration for the women and the words and again, such a joy in getting to be a part of a class like that. And such gratitude for having friends who care.

I feel like I've been embraced by Love.

just to reassure you

really, i'm not as nuts as my last entry might make you think. really, i was just agitated to the extreme. then i write about it, and walah--i feel quite a bit better.

the fall of my discontent

i am, for lack of a better word, very unsettled today. (so warning: this is volatile.)

i blame a little of it on my friend suzanne, who brought up the idea that my friend phil may ask me on a date. tonight i hung out with phil. i really like him. he's a great guy, a great friend. but i don't want to date him. i really don't want to date anyone; i don't want to worry about that, and i don't want people to bother me about it, either. just be my friend and leave me alone! lol.

truly, suzanne, if for some reason you read this, i'm not angry or anything; just agitated.

anyway. then i had a very frustrating conversation with my mother. i love my mother, truly i do. but she will always, ALWAYS put concern for finances before any emotional sentiment. for example, today i call home b/c i haven't heard from anyone for several days. i ask my dad if he has any thoughts about thanksgiving; is there any way i can get there to visit? he sorrowfully tells me that he doesn't think that will work, but that all of my family plan on trying to drive up on the 18th of dec, get here on the 19th, spend a few days with me in ohio, and then drive me home with them for the actual Christmas day. then i can fly back to ohio later. i try to look on the bright side of things: a lot of time with my family, and kc is home, so it will actually be fun.

then i talk to my mom. she doesn't call me anymore, so i always have to specifically ask for her. i ask her about this trip; has she gotten all her days off from work? then she proceeds to fumble through a very confusing question-and-answer with me until finally i get the gist of her message: she thinks it will just be a lot cheaper for me to get a roundtrip ticket home. hmm. so, mom, after dad leads to me believe that you guys will FINALLY be coming up to spend some time with me in ohio, in reality, i will ONCE AGAIN be footing the $500 + bill to fly home to spend my time with you guys because of course it is a million times cheaper to have me fly home as a single person than to you travel to me. yeah. i get it. same fucking story. different verse.

why is it so hard for people to come visit me here? i have no money, and yet, i'm ALWAYS the one who has to travel to see someone else. what is so fucking wrong me or ohio or whatever that no one bites the bullet for me, but if i want to see anyone, i have to suck it???????? i really don't get it. i don't. i don't. i don't.

and then. well. i wonder what the hell am i doing in oh? what possible purpose can there be for me to be here still? i feel like i have these tentative little roots here, but i can't fathom why because those roots seem to be growing nowhere fast.

i really hate when i feel this way. so negative. so angry. so . . .hurt. mom, why can't you just understand how your neverending focus on money concerns stabs me when it means you won't do everything you can to make a sacrifice for me? you won't sacrifice to come see me? why am i 27 and not married or a sister or something? why am i so pointless?

i wish i could just skip thanksgiving this year. maybe christmas, too. i wish i felt like i would be happy and fulfilled if i could live near my family like most other people do. i wish i had my own family, my own permanence. i wish i belonged somewhere.

so here's the thing

all day and half of last night my little inner voices have been arguing with each other. am i admitting to craziness? not quite. perhaps you might relate.

have you ever found yourself wondering if you're doing the right thing? i have found that it is very disconcerting to really try to do what you believe is right, and then have people question you or not understand you. granted i am not referring to some huge crisis, just a small one.

last evening, i received an email from a parent, a really good, caring parent. she tells me that her daughter hates school, which she has never done before. the mother tells me that she doesn't remember 8th grade being this hard for her older two kids, one of whom i taught. she is concerned that religion is too hard. she asked me to respond her email with my thoughts when i get a chance.

so of course, my brain has been whirring with potential responses since i read the email last evening. my first thought is that i feel really awful that her daughter is hating school for the first time ever because of my classes. maybe it's not just mine, but i think it's safe to assume that mine must be the worst. as i have always hoped to create an environment that made students feel encouraged and excited to learn, it's really a blow to hear that someone hates what i am doing.

so then i must question: am i too hard, especially in religion? i know that i expect the kids to learn the material of church history, which has a lot of names and events that most people don't know, much less 8th graders. i don't give open book tests, as i suppose other teachers do. so is it wrong to expect them to learn this info? i give them notes and a study guide; we do activities that i intend to help kids learn the material. some do very well, but some, like this girl i guess, are overwhelmed. then there is this diocesan-wide test, the acre test, that measures how well our school teaches religion. and there is so much they don't seem to know/remember.

then do i change it? am i doing something wrong? i really don't think i expect too much. it is harder perhaps, but so is high school. i guess the hardest part for me to know is whether i'm doing the right thing the right way for the right reasons. i sure try to. is that enough?

Oh, hello again

ummm, oops.

i kinda forgot about this guy. all my writing i've done has been for class or school, so internet kinda fell off my plate.

anyway. life's pretty good. today was pretty great because i scrapbooked with some friends. three more pages almost completed in the scrapbook i realized i've had in my possession since '01. silly me.

i actually have a few stories i mean to share on this site . . .eventually. i must get to bed as, well, i have to get to the good part in the book i'm reading. (i'd tell you what that book is, but i'm a bit embarrassed . . .kind of a fluffy one, but at least no one is having sex on the cover. inside the cover, a little.)

sooo, off to the book!

One of those weird days where you know someone out there is listening

My brain is a dryer right now . . . thoughts are tumbling around inside of it, and I'm trying to make sense of what just whirled past. Was that a sock? Or underwear? You get the picture, I hope.

I really didn't intend to write anything today, but bam! sometimes life just hits you with things you shouldn't ignore. Being at church this morning I was reminded just why I make the trek down there every time I can. First of all, I just love how my choir people welcome me right in, even though I'm barely there in time for mass these days, much less choir practice. Secondly, I had a little nun who about comes up to my belly button ask me if I intended to come to the Lenten stations of the cross this year because she remembers the reflection I gave two years ago, and she was so touched by that. Awh! Third, I get to see my friends at church there, and this weekend, the Radelets and the Zlatic parents were there to celebrate Mark and Joe's first birthday. I like them (the parents; I already really like the others) more every time I see them. Then Fr. Greg's homily was pretty great; he said something that I wanted to remember . . .something attributed to St. Francis (whose feast we celebrated today). . .something like "I have done what I was meant to do; I pray that you do the same" or something along those lines.

But the biggest sense that there is someone out there who wants to reassure me came post-Mass. I was briefly shopping around in the Sarah Center, a store in the old St. Francis bookstore that sells crafts made by women in OTR, and the proprietor of the store tells me, "Oh, I love your hair!" Now, you must understand, I have a very love/hate relationship with my hair. It is a massive, messy mane that takes far more time than I had this morning to get the fly-aways to cooperate, to get the curls to lay together, etc. In short, I was feeling a little anxious about having not tied it back before getting to mass; instead hoping that however it airdried would be tolerable. But by this time, I could feel the frizz. So I responded to the lady, "Oh, thanks. It's a little crazy and frizzy this morning! Didn't have time to really fix it."
Her response? "But that's precisely what makes it beautiful."

Huh? Say again? I don't get it. My hair is beautiful . . . because it is frizzy? Not despite it? I . . .don't know what to say. If that is true . . .well, then I've been thinking about beauty in entirely the wrong way.
So I've been thinking about what this lady said ever since. And I'm still thinking on it. I'll get back to you.

But here's an appreciation of beauty that DIDN'T surprise me. I received the most comments today on my shoes. Now, since I love shoes and own quite a few pairs, it is not unheard of that people will comment on whichever pair I'm wearing. But these shoes, well, I'll admit, even I find them dazzling. They include about 4 inches of a narrow, golden heel; long, pointed toes; and this brilliant metallic purple hue that matched rather well with my purple top. They're hard as hell to walk or stand in for very long, but they get a lot of admirers. You know who really seems to like them the most? Men. Yes, men seem to LOVE heels. The taller, the better. I had one random guy stop me and say, "You know, I just have to tell you how much I love your shoes! I saw you walk in today, and thought they were great!"
Um. Ok. Thanks. Now don't have an orgasm over it.
I could feel the eyes of the men in OTR staring at my feet and figured they were admiring the shoes, too. No one said anything directly, but I could hear murmurs as I moseyed past. There is a part of me that would LOVE to better understand the appeal of heels to men. Don't get me wrong; they are stunning (not mine in particular, just in general), but they're the most impractical things. And men love 'em. Women, too, but men feel the need to comment on them like they do nothing else I ever wear. It makes me wonder how many sexual fantasies feature heels. I wonder if I could wear whatever I want, say a potato sack or "mom" jeans and shoulder pads from the 80's, and a pair of pretty heels and still get men to react the same way. If I were a more daring kinda gal, I'd test that out.

And now, to tie all these random things together . . .my point is that I had been wondering if I could be beautiful without special makeup or done-up hair. And the answer seems to be it's possible to be natural and beautiful at the same time . . .if I also wear heels.

Saturday Morning Musings

(Warning: Mom and Dad, if you're reading this, I use some expletives.)

For the first Saturday in several weekends, I don't have to be anywhere until . . .later. Like post-lunch and afternoon snack later. And I often don't appreciate that feeling. I get kind of depressed and lonely feeling if I have nowhere to be right away. But this weekend, I'm going to live it up because I haven't had this freedom of time and this amount of sleep in a while. It feels damn good.

Being able to hit my snooze button for an hour, more or less, and listen to snippets of NPR reports in between was so freeing. I've spent all this week hitting my snooze, and then being almost late to school. In fact, I'm pretty disappointed in myself b/c twice this week I had my homeroom kids waiting outside my door for me to get there and unlock it. At least the first time it was b/c I hadn't set my alarm for the right time, ended up getting ready in 20 minutes, and rushed to school to let them in. The second time was yesterday, and I guess I just watched my time that poorly when I was getting ready. (It was picture day, and I guess I felt it necessary to spend an inordinate amount of time preparing myself for those 2 seconds in front of the camera--I really was less vain when I was younger . . .or maybe not less vain; just less aware of products that could make me like how I look.) Anyway, I'm displeased with myself. Tardiness is only acceptable if it doesn't adversely affect anyone but me.

This has been kind of an interesting little week at school. (I notice that all my posts are about school, it seems, but really it's about 80% of my life now). On Monday, I used the girls' restroom, and as I finished up my business and pushed the door aside, it decided it had had enough of shielding girls' private business, and it detached from its hinges to collapse on my arm. Lovely feeling, that. The subsequent bruise has coordinated nicely with all outfits this week.

Let's see: Tuesday morning was the day I slept till 7:20, when, praise Jesus, Janet realized I wasn't awake and called down to me. Wednesday was the day I felt inordinately depressed with my students b/c they feel almost indifferent to the suffering caused by slavery. It's truly not that they're uncompassionate; it's just they live in a bubble, and they hear all these historical facts over and over, but they're so far removed from them that once the shock value of the stats ends, they just feel the tedium of the repetition of the facts. But still, it just stabs something in me to know how shielded they are from the pain of real people. And, in a total reversal of the tone of the day, I was discussing poetry terms with my 7th period, and in the middle of writing the word "assonance" on the board, I got distracted and just had "ass." The sudden bursts of laughter alerted me to my mistake. Then I just had to shake my head at myself and apologize b/c the day prior to that, with this same class, my little teacher filter wasn't working too well, and I brought up a topic or two I really didn't need to.

Thursday saw my Power of the Pen group meeting; those budding writers are a lot of fun. My former student Katie is helping me with the 7th grade team, and it's just so awesome to have her there! Her help makes everything so much easier.

Friday, the second late day of the week for me, was one of those days of great ups and downs. Crazy, stormy morning that ended on an afternoon of blue skies and sunshine. I felt off for the first hour or so, but things seem to settle down after that. My 3rd period expressed that they are liking writing poems so much better than essays, and they like picking their own topics. And then I have to praise them b/c some of what they are writing, just in rough drafts, is really, really good. I feel so excited when I see it--just the potential of it gives me chills at times. And I had to write two demerits, one to a very nice boy who's a little rambunctious at times and one to sweetheart of a girl, the kind who almost never gets in trouble and cries when she does b/c she's so unused to "being bad." But they both threw pens to someone across the room from themselves, and that just won't work. I felt so badly about seeing how upset the girl was that I wrote her a little note just so she knows I wasn't mad at her and that I don't now label her as a "bad girl." Maybe I worry about that stuff too much; I think I was just such a sensitive kid who hated getting in trouble for any reason that I dread having to punish anyone else. But it must be done.

Oh, and the random other bizarre thing of yesterday: I had a kid in my 4th period ask if he could call me by my first name. Say what?? My response: do you call any of your other teachers by their first names? Of course he says "No" but then proceeds to run a list of variations of my name to see if any will work: "Kerry with a y; Miss Kerry; Berry." He ends with Berry and seems pretty set on that one. I have to firmly tell him that if he wants to call me that, then I'll be writing him a lot of demerits. Kids wanting to call me by my first name reminds me all too much of my first year here when I had this one obnoxious boy refer to me as "Melinda" for half the year. Of course, he got a lot of demerits for that, but he still proceeded to tell kids the next three years to call me that so that even this year, after I haven't seen this boy since May of 07, I still get at least one boy a year asking me if they can call me "Melinda." Hell, no, boy! Now shut the fuck up! But I can't say that for real.

Jeesh, children. Give me a break.

In other news, KC moves back to TX today. And I actually need to go do stuff now.

The Whirlwind of Time

Jeesh.

I wrote that at the bottom of an email today and realized that I don't use that word ever. But I should because it's just so cool.

Anyway, realized that it's been a while since I've been on this. Yikeys! That wasn't meant to happen. But that's what happens sometimes when you got something to do or somewhere to be every night for a couple of weeks. This week should slow down a bit. I'm still craving more sleep apparently. For instance, today I almost slept through school. Yes, if I didn't live right below Janet, I would have slept on and on and on this morning as evidently I set my alarm for 5:45 p.m., not a.m. Ooops.

But I got ready in 20 minutes, and my students were only waiting outside my room for a couple of minutes before I got there. They were really nice about it. Unfortunately, maybe because of the weather change or my sick feeling or just plain busyness, I still don't feel quite "with" it. I frustrated myself today because during 7th period, I was so immature. It's so embarrassing to think about. I hang my head at myself. I laugh at words in front of my whole class that I know other teachers would frown upon or give out demerits for. I probably should, too, but how can I when I laugh just as hard as everyone else?

Of course, the kiddos don't think that's a bad thing, but I just . . .doubt that. I felt like my filter of thoughts that usually knows when I should and should not mention something just wasn't working today, like it was still sleeping, waiting for that NPR morning edition to wake it up.

Oh, crapola. Must enter some grades and then head to bed so I don't have a repeat of this morning tomorrow. Although I did change my alarm time like a good little teacher . . . Ooh, bonus: a good book of which to read a chapter or two before the final "lights out." I am the Messenger . . .check it out!

Empowered

Phew.

Considering I've been awake and functioning for nigh on 14 and 1/2 hours today, I feel unexpectedly energetic . . .even exuberant.

Yes. I know. It's strange.

And I was worried 5 hours ago that I wouldn't be able to make it till the end of my 2 1/2 hour writing class tonight.

But I stroll in, wash my dishes, grab a glass of wine, and wah-lah: here I am.

From where does such energy stem? From feeling not only the interest of my small writing group, but their support and their sympathy, and admiration . . .?? Yes, I think that's it. I was so nervous about tonight's class--the 2nd one--potentially more nerve-wracking than the first because tonight we were separated into little groups of 4 . . .and these are the women we're sharing our writing with for the next 12 Mondays. Holy shit. No pressure or anything.

I brought a very long poem I wrote for KC. She hasn't gotten it yet. But I think if three before-unknown women can get what I want her to get, then it should go ok. I bawled my freakin' eyes out as I read it. Another woman grabbed a tissue, too. And they liked my poem's format. And the crying woman said she wished she had a sister like me. Actually, she said some other really nice things, too, but they're probably not best shared here.

So I just felt so affirmed, like it was the right thing for me to do this writing class. Their writing, too, made me want to hear more. We all seem quite different, but alike in willingness to be open and supportive. I hope that proves true throughout the semester.

One of those special teaching moments

Under the influence of a teacher whose work I admire, I've been sharing some poems with my children.

They groan. They fling their heads down in misery on their desks when I pass out the day's poem. They ask if I intend to do this every day.

From their general air of excitement, I can tell I'm making a positive impression on them.

I wish.

Last Friday I shared a poem with them entitled "The Little Boy." At first I wasn't even going to go there. It's a long poem, about three pages. It's about a kid who goes to school and loves to color, but his teacher always stops him and shows him the "right" way to make his picture. She always draws a red flower with a green stem. So the kid learns to imitate her. Eventually, he goes to another school, and this teacher wants him to draw, too. However, this teacher just walks around the room and waits for the boy to decide what he wants to do. When he questions her, she says she wants him to pick any drawing and any color. So he draws a red flower with a green stem.

I loved that poem. I was so inspired; I shared it with my classes because I thought it would be great for them to see how much it matters to me that I develop who they are and what they think. I yearned for them to see that I don't want them all to grow up to be the same person, crammed into the same mold.

They were unimpressed.

This week I gave them an assignment: they were to pick one of their topics from their list of writing ideas and write me anything they wanted in any form they wanted as long as it was at least 10 lines long. The number of puzzled faces that stared blankly back at me might amaze you. Many kids asked if they could just write an essay. When questioned further, they said they didn't think they knew how to write anything else. So today I show them an example of a poem written about craisins--yes, those yummy pieces of dried cranberries. And again I tried to explain that I just wanted to see what they could do if the only constraints I gave them were that it must be from their writing list and must be at least 10 lines long. One girl appeared terrified.

"But I only know how to write an essay!" she exclaimed.

Her neighbor gaped at her, "I think this sounds way easier."

And then this group of girls who sit on the outer section of my two semi-circled group of desks suddenly seem to connect ideas.

"Oh, you're like the teacher from the poem!" one shouted.

I had no idea what she meant. I expressed my confusion with articulation. "Huh?"

"You know--the one with the red flower and the boy! We've always done essays, and you want us to make our own ideas!"

"Well . . .yeah. I do. I want to see what you can do if I just leave it open. Not that essays are bad . . .you definitely need to know how to do those. But they're not the most fun kind of writing you can do."

In that brief moment of connection between ideas, I felt that internal soaring that comes with feeling that something I attempted hit home with at least a few students . . . that for a miniscule second, they could see the overarching plan that unites my classroom activities. Well, maybe not the whole plan. Maybe more a piece of the mortar that holds it all together . . .but still, it was gratifying. Uplifting even.

I'm feeling pretty excited to see what they bring on Friday.

Celebrity Status

You know, I love going to high school football games. Not so much to watch the football because honestly, if I have to watch the game very closely, I get bored. But the atmosphere is great, the energy and the school colors waving around and just the activity are fabulous for a Friday night.

And, to be honest, for the past three seasons, I leave the games feeling pretty damn good about myself. It's pretty much the only place I know to go to see former students, and sometimes I get swarmed by them. I'll be the only person who can legally drive within a 100 foot radius.

Since school's been in for two and a half weeks now, I've been wanting to go, and tonight I figured there might be an hour left in the game for me to "observe."

So I headed out in my Sonata with its low tire pressure and drove the 20 minutes it takes to get to Fenwick Field, or whatever it's called. It was pitch black outside; only the lights from the field lent any light. I somewhat apprehensively headed toward the gate, flipping open my phone and texting rapidly so I wouldn't look like I was awkwardly alone or anything. It's the part I dread the most: the walk from my car through the gates and to a seat by people I know, hoping like I don't stand out like the cliched sore thumb. As I walk about 50 feet inside the gate, I hear my name screamed and glance up from my phone to watch as about 10 8th graders gallop towards me and fling their arms around in a massive group hug. I know I hit one girl in the face. There might have been more casualities, but the cluster of people only grew tighter as former students caught wind that I was there. Suddenly I was embraced by freshmen, my 8th graders of only 4 swift months ago. Their chatter bursts forth, and they seem to edge out the present 8th graders to form a circle around me. They want to complain about their massive loads of homework, the relative meanness of their teachers, and their general dissatisfaction in their status change. And I cannot tell a lie; I felt enormously gratified when they praised me and said they'd kept my notes and remembered direct objects (what I call the "d.o." or "do"). In fact, it is possible that I threw my fists in the air and shouted triumphantly when they said they remembered things I had taught them. As a teacher, you always wonder if anything you say or do affects their lives at all, and it is SO reassuring to hear that some of your efforts found fertile ground.

So as it turns out, I never made it any further than those 50 feet inside because quite a few came to me. I saw some juniors I had taught, a few straggling sophomores (not as many as I had hoped but maybe next time), quite a few freshmen swung by, and a surprising number of my present students (who apparently were taking pictures of me chatting with the freshmen??--a little creepy and stalkeresque), and even some 7th graders came and said hi. One of my favorite former students said he and his friend (another one with a special place in my heart) had looked for me around half time . . .I wondered how they would even know I was coming. Or maybe it just occurred to them that I would. And apparently one of my 8th graders told his friends that he "knew I was coming," and I wonder how the hell he figured that. Strolling in at 4th quarter doesn't seem like promising odds.

Anyway, it was brief, almost dream-like, like did I really just get to see those people I've been wondering about for the past few weeks? But it's given me the energy to come home and write and then go back and teach next week, feeling like something I've done has made an impression on those kids I can't help but love year after year after year.

The Rebirth of "Big Toe"

In my school, we work hard to incorporate the 6 Traits of Writing into our yearly writing procedures. This is my third year to use this system, and in reality, I'm still revising and refitting and making things work the way I think they should. Now I'm trying out the writing advice of Nancie Atwell, who really seems to be a kick-butt English teacher. She's not just a theorizer; she's a practicing middle school teacher. That gives her increased credibility in my book.

So, this year, I've been striving to incorporate those 6 Traits with her teaching of writing. The first activity she suggests to improve writing? Something called "Writing Territories." This activity is simply a listing of topics--events, people, memories, emotions, etc--that each kid creates to refer back to when coming up with new topics for writing. Fits perfectly with the "ideas" trait of writing.

To help my darlings create their own list, I made a list of things I could write about. The most fun part of this list is telling stories. Kids, especially this class, LOVE to hear stories about their teachers' lives. In fact today, as I went over this list, they decided they'd rather create their own list for homework and have me tell them stories about my life during class. You want me to talk about myself? Well, ok.

They learned quite a bit about me today: my most embarrassing moment, memories of my grandfather, the death of my student Celeste, a funny college story. I even had one kid stay after class to ask me about one other thing on my list that I hadn't gotten to yet. As he asked me, I gave him one of those incredulous looks (you know what I mean, I'm sure), "Are you sure you really want to hear this?"
His response, "Yes, because it's a toss up between who's my new favorite teacher, you or Mrs. Birchwell because you're both crazy!"
Well, kiddo, when you put it that way . . .geez, I'm crazy? Energetic, bizarre at times, but crazy? Couldn't you have picked a less offensive word? lol.
Anyway, I obliged him. He seemed pretty satisfied that I was still "crazy" by his reaction.

So, the same group of kids returns to me after lunch. We were discussing a short story and going over how to find theme in a story (an eerie number of them didn't seem to remember what that was). The theme of this particular story had to do with everyone, even the homeless guy the story focused on, having his own "treasure." Naturally, I ask my kids if they have a non-monetary treasure. One witty fellow raises his hand--"My left big toe."
I gaze at him in surprise. "Your big toe, huh? I have a story about a big toe, which I will tell you if we have time at the end of class."
Instantly they perk up (seriously, they have an intense interest in my life). Several times during the remainder of the 45 minute class, they ask me if I can tell the big toe story. I downplay it as much as possible.
"Guys, this story really probably won't be that funny to you. It was probably only funny to me, but if you really want to hear it . . ."
Yes, they say. Even if they have more work to do at home tonight.
So in the last 6 or 8 minutes, I oblige them again. I go into the details of the anatomy and physiology class that I really didn't want to take as a senior in high school. I explain how my teacher was a coach and how he sat at his desk each day, and one day my classmates and I weren't really listening as he spoke until he yelled at us. In the stillness that followed, he said, "Big toe."
That's it. Just "big toe" and he stopped. Nothing before and nothing after. And I just lost it. Internally, though. I didn't want to laugh hysterically in front of my classmates--too weird. But I'm sure I was twitching in my seat with my eyes burning and my fingers clenched into my palms to keep the laughter in.
And then I had to tell my friends (Erin and Carrie, do you remember this?), and it became this thing where no one really thought it was as funny as I did, but people would say it randomly just to make me laugh until I couldn't breathe. (Carrie, I have a distinct memory of you doing this to me in Mrs. Moutos' class!)

Just as I suspected, the kids didn't think it laugh-out-loud funny, but God bless 'em, they did try to understand.
"Well, I could see why that would be funny. I mean, it's so random. Big toe," said one girl. I smiled and reminded them to use the last few minutes to start reading their next story. Some kids tried, but the others decided to test this "big toe" thing.
"Hey, Ms. Sullivan!" And I would turn to hear "big toe" shouted at me.
"Oh, haha, guys." I think the funnyness has long since passed for me.
But I had several more kids try to make me laugh spontaneously. One kid shouted, "Little toe" at me, and I did genuinely laugh at that. And another kid brought in his friend from a different class just to say "big toe," and when I walked out into the hall during change of classes, two kids came up and told me "big toe" separately.
But probably the best moment came when I went back to my desk and found a folded-up piece of paper sitting there. And when I opened it, it said--you guessed it,
"Big Toe!" complete with a little drawing and a "haha."
And this, ladies and gents, is why I teach.

Why, when I just want to go home, don't I get my work done and leave?

My title of this post pretty much says it all. Why DON'T I just hurry myself along and finish up things I need to do to be ready to leave? Well. That's a good question.

I'm in that distractable state where I just want to play. Yes, I want to dart home, change into non-sweaty clothes, and then find something fun to do. I wish I knew someone who wanted a happy hour Thursday! I need more single people in my life! Not having a second job . . .well, I've been almost bored this week. Gasp. I know.

Speaking of jobs, my main job is going pretty well. I'm enjoying this new group of 8th graders quite a lot. Rather chatty but seem very good-natured thus far. I think some of the less savory characters were weeded out before these kids got to me. Right now I'm in the beginning stages of challenging them to read books on their own and to find a reason to appreciate poetry. I'm also trying to help them prepare to find topics they'd like to write about this year. And I'm getting to know them. They're really quite a friendly group overall. Really, most seem willing to help out.

Putting that warm, glowy moment aside for a second, I'm both tremendously excited and apprehensive about next Monday. Next Monday I begin the writing class I've wanted to take for a year now. Of course, then doubts assail me. I have a lot of ideas, but do I have the commitment to follow through with anything? That I'm not sure about. I've never made much time in my life for writing. But I've been thinking: won't I teach writing so much better if I actually spend time writing myself? I mean, the kind of writing appreciation and skill and WORKSHOP that I want my students to have, I myself have never experienced. So I think if I try this, I will improve. And that is pretty exciting.

And now it is after 4 p.m., kids have been gone for an hour, and I could have been gone too . . .enough chatter. Finish.

Two Days Can Feel Like 5

I'm not sure how much sense this will make as I'm almost deliriously tired, I'm drinking a glass of wine, and um, I think there was something else I wanted to go here. Oh well. I just completed rewatching favorite scenes from my guilty pleasure show, True Blood. Yes, the HBO series about vampires. No, not my typical show. In fact, there's some parts I just have to skim right through, but there's something about seeing characters from books you've read come alive. And since it's a t.v. series, I feel like I get to see a lot, versus a movie, where so much is cut. Granted, things are modified for this show, but really, I think the actors have a pretty realistic portrayal of what I see in the books. Except for Bill. I think he's an a-hole in the books, and I love Eric. But Eric is so . . .manipulative in this show. Or maybe that's how he's supposed to be. Anyway, love him and Godric.

Moving on, (see, told you this would be bizarre), first days of school went decently well. My classes are chattier than I expected them to be, but since most of them have gone to school together for years, I guess that makes sense. Today, the kids had an essay due about themselves (yes, I give them homework the first night of school--hehe), and a few of them were persuaded to read theirs. One boy, who I know a little from last year, referred to me in his essay and called me a "gorgeous goddess"--only he called me Mrs. Sullivan, so maybe he really meant my mom. The kids all giggled and looked at me; I almost interrupted him and then just let him finish the essay b/c I know he has this tendency to make statements like that to teachers . . .he has a very unique personality. He's had some trauma in his life recently. Anyway, so far, I've liked this class better than last year's as a whole. Cannot figure that out--last year's class had a lot of kids I really like, but I just feel like I'm going to like this one better.

Well, I must be off to my bed. It almost feels as if pieces of me are becoming detached from the whole. That makes no sense.

The Epiphany

I think prayers really can work. In my life, I've noticed a pattern that if I have reached my breaking point on something, such as I did yesterday, I want my mom. There is something about her that when I'm at my most fragile, she keeps all those pieces from crumbling apart. So I called her, bawled my eyes out, and she prayed for me. And ya know, I woke up this morning feeling hopeful.

Today, I met two young women, younger than me, actually, who are considering religious life. One, Emily, lives in Oregon and is about 95% sure she's joining a community in a few months. I met her first. Then our conference had a presentation on religious life today, and the speakers were very good. Afterwards, our small groups were supposed to discuss some questions regarding the talk and our thoughts on religious life. I suppose that would have been a good time for me to share my struggles, but I just couldn't get the words out. My eyes were full of tears as I focused on the table top and my fingers resting there. My throat ached from the choked feeling inside it. I could listen, but I couldn't speak.

Post-presentation and discussion, I approached the sisters and priest who presented and thanked them. I asked one of them for suggestions in finding places to talk to young women who were like me. I told her that I felt like a big weirdo, and she looked at me and firmly said, "But you aren't." I kind of believed her.

As I left, another girl, who wears her hair in dreds and a t-shirt that speaks of fair trade coffee, came up to me and said, "We should have lunch together today." Um, ok.

So it turns out that Emily, Katie, and I spent a rushed lunch talking about some of our thoughts and struggles. Katie feels called to a pretty radical lifestyle. She said she had visited some Maryknoll sisters, who apparently are very missionary and liberal. I think she felt that we would be good friends because of the red streaks that are presently in my hair. At once I felt both flattered and alarmed--I wanted to tell her that the red streaks are a short-term kind of thing, but I didn't.

Later today, we all had a meeting with our small groups--ah back to the group that doesn't do much for me--and we reflected on the different "mission" sites we had visited. The people in my group, including me, weren't too impressed with ours, but there was a group that went to see these Passionists who work with boys they are trying to save from gang life. Hearing my group members speak about that brought to mind my Detroit and Cleveland students and reminded me fervently of my love and passion for working with them. Well, maybe more my Detroit kids. Anyway, I shared some stories of that and ended up talking with one of my group members post-meeting about how much I would love to work with kids like those gang members and be, well, like a mother for them. And then it hit me--maybe that's why I feel a call to be a sister. I mean, if I were married, I would have to be committed to my family--my kids and husband. But I were a sister, I could be free to love people who have no one to love them. And I'm pretty sure I could do that and be really happy. Actually, I think I could give up what I thought meant a lot to me: clothes, shoes, traditional family life, "normalcy"--and be joyful and not feel like I was losing something but instead gaining my dream. And then during this prayer we had tonight in front of the Eucharist, I thought about all my favorite dreams as I've grown up. My ideal job would be to have a home for unwanted pets and kids. I would love to read to kids at night and listen to them as they figure out their lives and hug them and tell them how much I love them because I would. I've never loved anyone the way I loved my Detroit kids, and maybe this vision I have would be something like working with them again.

Amazingly, I feel a sense of purpose and hope that I definitely couldn't find last night. Maybe my enormous, impossible dreams have some relevance after all.

Screaming with my mouth tightly closed

Um, so I don't have any idea how many people frequent this blog now that my European experiences are over for now. I just want to "warn" anyone who does still read this to understand that what I'm now posting is something I've only shared with a few people very close to me, and why I'm choosing to put this online now is merely due to the fact that I feel like something inside me might explode from trying to act as though this isn't something happening to me. I don't even care if that doesn't make sense. Just please, don't bring this topic up in my presence unless I've already talked about it with you or you do so privately, through email or something. Nothing makes me feel more vulnerable than this. I equate it with appearing in the nude before a huge crowd, where you can see the weird moles, flabby areas, and that roll around my middle that I loathe.

So I'm in Chicago right now. I'm giving up my final week of summer vacation to come to a conference called Catholics on Call. It's supposed to be for young adult Catholics who are trying to find some direction in their lives in various ministries throughout the Church. This can include lay and religious ministries. Even though I can't believe I'm saying this, I came here because I need a friend who's thinking about the religious side of it. Yup. Me. God, you can't imagine how much I don't want to think about this. I've been able to keep it inside for the most part and not think about it too frequently for 9 years, but I'm 27 now. So many people I know have found their forever person or at least are out there looking at my age. I can't look for a guy with much enthusiasm because I have this other burden I'm carrying around. And the worst part? The worst part is that I don't know one single other fucking person in the world who seems to be going through this, too, that I can talk to. I came here to Chicago purely in hopes to be in a group of people who could say they feel this agonizing struggle, too. But I'm in a small group of people based not on their reasons for coming to this conference but on age. Yes, I'm in a small group that happens to be the oldest people at this conference. It is so weird to be the oldest at a young adult conference. My point, though, is that I still feel alone here! I know there are other people, male and female, who came here for reasons similar to mine; why am I not in a group with them? Finding a friend or at least a supportive group who can empathize with my feelings is THE reason I am here. I'm not here to learn how to pray or what discernment is; I'm trying to find a way to deal with the questions, anxieties, and relentless "call" that I feel. I want someone to show me what they're doing; I want someone who is screaming the same questions I scream. How can I ever become comfortable with the idea of a religious vocation anywhere outside of my imagination? How can I be this "sister" and not flinch at the very sound of it? I mean, I've never wanted to do this. Look around at the religious sisters you usually see. Can't you just tell they're sisters by looking at them? They all have that haircut with glasses and godawful clothes and shoes. Shallow? I don't care. They pledge away their lives in service to others, which sometimes appeals to me, but they don't get to have their own families. Can I do that? HOW?

Coming to this conference was something I thought would make me feel safe in finally finding a place to discuss all this crap. But I don't. I feel withdrawn and tired. Why is this five days long? Why am I here? Is it worth sticking out, or should I go home and prepare for the start of school? I don't want to quit. I believe there is a reason, but I sure could use a little bit of connection with someone, a little bit of seeing the purpose for my presence here. Right now I just want to run away.

Just sittin' at the dock of the bay

I wish I were sitting on dock by a bay somewhere. That'd be so great. Instead, I'm sitting at a B&N wifi hotspot, which is undeniably a good thing to have, but it also means I'm on the road again, not at home, where I'd rather be.

It's up to Chi-town this week for a Catholic conference thingy-ma-bobber. I really hope it's worth the time I'm sacrificing getting ready for school, which, scarily enough, is staring me in the face again. I thought I was ready, but I'm so not! But . . .thanks to Beka, my classroom is at least painted. One three year goal reached at last!

Yesterday I was in Indy to bid adieu to my friend Marty, who is moving to China to teach English. In his words, I will see him again "between 1 and 20"--years that is. And for the first time in my life, I contemplate seriously visiting China. I've been promised a good time. Might be worth it.

And your heritage is . . .?

Since childhood, my sister KC has been asked what her nationality/heritage/ethnicity, etc. might be. With her naturally tan skin, straight, almost black hair, and startingly minty green eyes, she doesn't look like your everyday girl-next-door. There is something rather exotic about her. Thus as a child, she could tell people she was part Native American. As a teen with her long cornrows, she could pass as half African American. Indeed some people went so far to tell her when she waitressed for them that "If you were white, I'd give you a better tip." (I'm not going to go on my rampage against the prejudices of the ignorant just yet--maybe another post). When she worked at the Barnes and Noble cafe and the Pak-a-Sak in Amarillo, people questioned if she were Brazilian. I believe even in L. A., land of the melting pot, people ponder if she might be Persian. Sometimes, out of sheer irritation or a sense of fun, she plays along with it and makes up a fantastical story as to her ancestry. Honestly, people will believe just about anything if you look "different."

Now I, on the other hand, have never had such questions. I'm the "whitey" in my family, the one whose skinned would burn, peel, and/or freckle growing up. It still does that to some extent, but honestly, since I've moved to OH, I've been able to get the best tans of my life. (Isn't that insane? I grew up in TEXAS!) Ok, yes, I've been envious of my sister. Interestingly enough, our eyes are just about the same color, but hers just look so much more striking because she has that fantastic tanned skin to set off the lightness. Mine just blends right in with my whiteness.

However, since I've moved to OH, people seem to find it easier to believe I might have more exotic origins than the Irish/German combo that created my genetic makeup. Not that there's anything wrong with those . . .I'm pretty proud of my heritage, especially the Irish part. But in the past year I've had more than one person ask me if I were Italian, in the past couple of months I had someone tell me I look "European" (whatever that means), and in the past twenty-four hours, I had one guy tell me I looked like I could have come from southern Europe or maybe Spain, and another guy question if I were Greek. Greek! I suddenly feel a bit more exotic than I ever have. And, yeah, I feel kinda good about that. Like I'm . . .cooler somehow.

Uploading, downloading, and basically frying my computer

Oh dear Lord.

I'm not taking the Lord's name in vain; I am uttering a prayer. Yes, I might lose it. Obviously, I'm utterly overwhelming my poor laptop. A moment ago, it tried to deny that this blogspot even existed. You can perhaps understand why I might find that exasperating as I know quite well that it does indeed exist.

I am also struggling with uploading my many summer photos: Kodak Easyshare is a joke that freezes all the time, so I downloaded Picasa 3, and still seem unable to upload my photos from there onto Facebook.

I've been trying to download new music. After a suggestion from a friend, I sought out Esau Mwamwaya and Radioclit are the Very Best; it's a free album that has taken me about a week to finally save to my computer. Then I'm searching the internet and iTunes for other songs that were suggested to me. . . .

You know that headache you get when you stare at a computer too long? I have it. It's pounding against my eyes, and I want to look away from my computer, but still, there are things I'm trying to get done.

My computer has started slowing down in all its operations again. I think it needs more memory, but I'm not sure the best place to go for that. One of my shift keys has stopped functioning . . .of course that's been a while now. I should send it to the Dell company while it still has a warranty, but then I won't have it for a while . . .

Whoa--I'm so whiny! I blame it on the time of day and this relentless headache. Tomorrow should be pretty good though--I'm picking out a color to paint my classroom. I'm planning on a soft aqua. Doesn't that sound pretty?

Odds and Ends

I have a myriad of thoughts running through my brain right now, so bear with me.

1st: I am mostly pleased to note that the new kitchen knife is quite sharp. How do I know this? 1: it cut through the rind of the honey dew melon I purchased. 2: it cut through a piece of my finger. Slippery little sucker.

2nd: Oh, me. I overspend. I overdrafted! Anxiety sets in. IMUSTNOTPURCHASEANYTHINGTOMORROW! Say it with me now: I must not purchase anything tomorrow! Maybe if I say it over and over . . .

3rd: I like boys. I don't mean in a creepy way. I mean in a "you are kind of weird but often funny and I get you a lot more than I used to" kind of way. That made no sense. Well, it does to me. Anyway, they look at the world so differently than I do. For instance, I love that my cousin Kyle referred to my big purple ring that KC made me as an egg. I could almost hear the thought processes rushing through his head as he stared at it when we were visiting in IA this summer. "Ok, that one is a butterfly, and that one is . . .a massive lump that has a kind of point at one end and a large rounded other side--like an egg!" I'm sure he felt triumphant figuring that out. Also, I saw HP #6 tonight, and it just cracks me up watching Harry and Ron fumble their way through girls. Ron especially has so little clue.

4th: Two thoughts occurred to me as I used the movie restroom tonight--one for each time I used it. 1: why do some stalls not have the little slidey lock thing anymore? I mean, does someone go into a violent rage and pry them off? Does someone steal them? Do they fall off? This is what I ponder as I lean forward to prevent the door from popping open during use. 2: why, on God's green earth, do people paint bathrooms in movie theaters that hideous neon yellow? It doesn't make things bright and cheery as one might think. No, it casts a heinous, jaundice-like hue on everything. Shudder.

5th: Curly hair is so damn expensive. Yes, it deserves an expletive. I know Mrs. Moutos would be disappointed in me using a four letter word when I know so many longer ones, but really, sometimes the occasion just calls for it. Anyway, yes, curly hair is ridiculous. At least mine is. I can never just buy those cheap little general store products. I can never just settle on one little anti frizz cream to style it. No, it takes multiples of these products so that I may go into overdraft to have half way decent hair. Straight haired people, let me never hear you complain that you can't do anything with your hair. At least it can be managed cheaply.

Unexpected

First of all, thanks for the messages from people reading the blog:) I'm either not tech-savvy enough to figure out how to respond or too lazy to really try to figure it out. Anyway, I appreciate the comments!

Soooo, we've had a bit of excitement in the past couple of days--my dad had to spend the night in the hospital.

Gasp. Yes, it shook me up a bit. I think I get that my parents aren't invincible, but then things happen which remind me of their mortality, and it rattles me a little.

Since we've lived in TX, my parents have made at least one yearly trek via car up to Iowa to visit their respective sides of the family. Apparently, it can take a toll on one's body. Two days ago my dad complained of having a charley horse in his leg. In my infinite wisdom (since I know soooo much about things like that), I suggested that he drink some water as I've read somewhere that charley horses are caused by lack of water to muscles which then spasm. The next morning, when I finally roll off my air mattress and join the rest of the world, Dad tells me he's going to go the doctor's to check on his leg. It's swollen and tender, and he limps around. Mom worries that he has a blood clot and orders him off his leg. Dad, of course, has already been out riding the horse that morning because apparently that hurts less than riding his bike. Um, ok.

As his doctor never returned his call, Dad prepares to head to the emergency room, and I offer to drop him off as I take the kids to the Skate Plex. I plan to pick him up after we're done skating. The skating doesn't pan out, so we head to Transformers 2 (warning: it's really long) and call Mom post-movie. She says nothing about Dad, so I assume he's safely at home and doesn't need a ride. Surprise, surprise. When I get home, Mom informs us that Dad is still at the hospital, he does have a blood clot, and he might have to stay overnight. Mild heart palpitations accompany this announcement, but I make some lame joke, and we proceed with dinner. Then Mom receives a phone call from Dad.
"In the lungs?" she says.
What? What does that mean? I shoot her a glance. She has that focused, serious look that she gets in dramatic situations. When she hangs up, she looks at me.
"They found clots in both his lungs."
"Um, what does that mean? Like, what do they have to do?"
"They'll put him on blood thinner, and they may admit him to watch him overnight. He has to stay off his feet. I guess he got up to change the channel in his room, and a nurse caught him and yelled at him." She grinned at that, but I could see the worry.
So we played the waiting game for a while, wondering what would happen. Eventually Dad learns that he will be staying over night, so he asks me to bring him some things. I ended up waiting with him for an hour or so at night while he waited on his room. It took two hours from the time they said he would stay over night to actually get him in the room. Poor guy didn't get a meal or drink or anything for the 8 hours he sat there. He did learn that it was the long hours in the car that caused the clot to form.

Today he is home, hoping for insurance to kick in. I hate insurance companies. Of course they're going to try to deny paying for any of this. I mean, why would they pay for a health concern? I feel like growling at them. As it is, I must content myself with shaking my fist in the air.

As for Dad I think he'll be ok with some R and R. I get to take the kids places now that we were supposed to do as a family. My only resentment (yes, I am shallow enough to feel that way) is that I really wanted to do some of these things all together. I leave on Thursday. Won't be back for months, ya know. But, well, that's life I guess, and it goes on.

"We are family"

Saturday morning, July 11th. 3:30 a.m.
It almost would have been easier to just stay awake all night to catch my flight to IA. Turns out it's good that I didn't. If I had, I wouldn't have slept at all before meeting my new siblings.

My flight arrived early, and I intended to call my parents to urge them to hurry to the airport. Just so happened that they were early, too, and I saw my dad standing next to a short, dark haired boy with his hands in his pockets. My heart gave a frantic flutter, but I firmly pushed aside my nervousness.
I approached and flung my arms around my dad, who I haven't seen since last December. Then I turned to my new brother.
"You must be Pedro." He nervously nodded. "Oh, come here, you get a hug, too!" I admired his Texas belt buckle and nice clothes. They both were already dressed for my cousin's wedding.
"Mom and Aracely are in the bathroom changing into their wedding clothes. Oh, here they are."
They both receive my wide-armed hugs, and it was finally done--I had met the new sibs.

The events of the past few days have been crammed full of family. My cousin Karla got married, and my mom's family, quite the party crowd, jumped in wholeheartedly for the occasion. It was pretty fabulous. I wondered how Pedro and Cely would do being surrounded by the masses of people that make up my mom's side--she does have 9 brothers and sisters--but they hung in there and seemed to have some fun, too.

We left IA on Monday after lunch and began the looooonnnggg car ride home, finally getting here at 3:45 today, Tues. I taught my new siblings the fun of the Yahtzee handheld game; Cely seemed to get into it, but Pedro gave up quickly. We shared music on our various instruments of music playback options: my iPod, Pedro's mp3 player, Cely's cd player. Pedro and I have discussed some rap songs I know--not too many--but more than my parents know for sure. Cely showed me the song she likes from Magic Tree House (I guess it's a show)--it's a brother and sister singing to each other about how they couldn't live without the other. It's actually really sweet. Pedro likes Eminem and Daddy Yankee.

Pedro is pretty outgoing; he likes to tell stories and drive me crazy if he can. But he can also be very sweet. I can tell family means a lot to him as he constantly tells me of things of the past from his older cousins, older sister, real mom and dad, etc. He sounds like he got in some trouble at school in the past. Cely is quieter in general, but loves to giggle and listen to Taylor Swift and play games. She has a real sweetness about her. Both have huge grins with dimples. Both have new nicknames from their big sister: Cely has been dubbed Cel-Belle and Pedro is PC. (Pedro quickly redubbed Cely "cell phone.") Both hate to read but have to practice 30 minutes a day to help them get better for school this upcoming year. My dad makes them read to him. I guess they're pretty behind in school.

Their life now must be much different than before. I know my parents have different rules and expectations than they've experienced in the past. I know all this getting involved in the Catholic Church has been less than exciting for them. They've been attending a Baptist church with their foster parents.

I can't help but admire my parents for the commitment they're making for the rest of their lives, but particularly for the next several years. However, it's the kids that make me tear up at times. As my mom said to me yesterday, "If their birth parents had any idea what they're missing . . .I just can't imagine how they could give them up." I feel the same way. It's just so hard to understand how anyone could give birth to kids with a lot of needs, but such a genuine sweetness and desire to be loved, and then allow them to be taken away. How could you not fight tooth and nail to be worthy of them? These kids have to relearn so much to belong to this family, and they have to learn to feel a part of a history and a family very different from anything they've ever known. They've been made fun of and put down by other kids because they're not with their real family. I feel infuriated at the thought.

I guess my biggest hope is just that they do feel like they belong in this family, that they soon see that the rules and chores they do here are annoying maybe but a part of being at home. I hope they can see themselves as Sullivans always:) Now I need to go watch that Hannah Montana show with them (bleh). Oh, and see about getting their initials added to my tattoo.

Brief Little Observations

As we strolled around the different countries of Eastern Europe, I noticed little things that people seemed to have in common and some small differences as well.

Hair: a lot of women seemed to have this poorly dyed red hair--not natural looking at all. Also saw a remarkable number of mullets, especially the fem-mullet variety (mullet on women). A lot of people had dreds, too.

Build: It seemed of the three countries I went to, most people were a lot smaller than Americans are weight wise. Hungarians I remember as being the skinniest and tallest, then the Polish, and the Czechs seemed the shortiest and most "ordinary" of the three--although these are purely my observations and have nothing to back them up scientifically. But I definitely felt very weight-conscious there.

Dress: You could pick out the tourists by their clothes, us included. We were quite underdressed by Euro standards. My sense of pride urged me to go buy some nicer clothes, but my sense of practicality shut that voice up for the most part. I just hate looking more plain than everyone else--lol.

Attitude: Most people weren't that friendly. Not that they were out and out rude, (although there were a few of those people, too), but they just either stared at us for being obviously out of place, or completely ignored us. The first time someone smiled at me in Hungary, I took one look at his clothes and realized that he, too, was a tourist. That was on our final day there.

Final thoughts: even though it's a challenge sometimes to deal with cultural differences (like the fact that you have to tell a waiter over there that you want your check or that if you ask for water, you will have to pay for it; you will usually have to pay for use of a toilet, too, if you're out and about), I really think everyone should travel abroad at least once if he/she can afford it. Otherwise, it's too easy to think that everyone should see the world the way we in America do, and the rest of the world just doesn't because their lives are very different. We truly have the most amenities of any country in the world just for our average citizens. Like we expect free toilets and water, and to be able to own our own cars, and to have air conditioning, and to be able to eat till we make ourselves sick. I guess I'm saying that I realize how much I have when I'm in other countries; I realize how high my standard of living is. For these first few days or maybe even weeks after I get back to the States, I know I will appreciate some of that. But I also know it won't take long before I just accept this life as standard, and I will just keep wanting more. Someone wise once said that happiness is wanting just what we already have. I must laugh at myself when I read that, for based on that definition, I've only been happy for short periods of time in my life and the rest I've just been wanting something more. Ah well.

"Then We Came to the End"

Saturday, the 4th of July. It's oddly anticlimatic to celebrate your country's independence in another place that cares not about it. Kind of makes one forget it's occurring anywhere. But eventually, we did it up American style. I get ahead of myself.
Saturday's great moments for me include these: a red dress, the Kafka museum, the funicular, Starbucks observations, and a picnic in a rose garden.
Red dress: I purchased this in Kutna Hora and waited for a special occasion to don it; Saturday seemed special. Kafka: read Metamorphosis in high school and always felt a strange connection to it. Was more thrilled than I would have expected to learn that Kafka was from Prague. The museum strove for a true "Kafkaesque" feel; it succeeded for me. It was dark and strange and somewhat tragic. I have a new fascination with Kafka and a resolve to read more of his works. He was a brilliant man who hated himself--a tortured soul, one might say. Alas, I could go on and on but shall stop myself.
Funicular: apparently this was the mechanism that M and H rode to get to the top of the hill where the mirror museum resides. Yeah, S and I were nowhere close. It's pretty great to ride sideways up a mountain.
Starbucks: post-Kafka museum, I parted from M and H (S had gone on her own explorations at this time) and found my way to a Starbucks. Naturally it was frequented by tourists. Part of me felt frustrated with myself for giving into a desire for this truly American place, but the other part of me thrilled at the idea of a big cup of coffee to sip. I found my way to an empty table outside and observed the tourists. I overheard a group of Romas (also known as gypsies) nearby talk about people's reactions to them. They seem to find people's fear of them amusing. Romas, as you might know, have a long history of being hated in Europe. Hitler tried to eradicate them from the earth as he did the Jewish people. They are second class citizens in many countries, I learned from H and M--but unfortunately, sometimes they do live up to the stereotypes people have of them. Anyway, the importance of the Starbucks moment is that I made it to and from there by myself. It was my first venturing out on my own in a foreign city, and I felt really good about myself for figuring out where I needed to be and how to get back to the hostel. A sense of independence for once rather than my usual dependence on the skills of others.
Picnic in rose garden: the four of us purchased food from the supermarket Lidl's and rode the funicular once again to the top of the hill from earlier. We sat among roses and consumed food and wine and some chocolate chip cookies that had some American reference. Very American.

Sunday. Probably my favorite part was attending mass at the Infant of Prague church as it was in English and thus I could participate. My warm, fuzzy, glowing moment came after mass when two guys sitting near me starting talking to me--individually, not at the same time. As some may know, I really like to sing along at church and can get pretty into it. I felt very flattered that two good-looking guys from other countries thought that was a good thing. Downside of the mass being at the church was the tourists who still proceeded to take pictures of the famous infant even while the worship service was going on. I felt offended.
Also saw the Pinkas Synagogue and the Old Jewish Cemetery where the people in the Jewish Quarter used to bury their dead by stacking the bodies on top of each other b/c they ran out of space.
I did get to see the famous astronomical clock, but I didn't see it change hours b/c, imagine this, I was late. Poor S tried to get me to the clock in time for the hour, but I was slow. At first I was really annoyed at myself, but then figured, hey, at least I've seen it now. And I saw the most precious thing: these two toddlers, one Asian and one white, who didn't know each other from Adam, briefly became friends and danced together for a couple of minutes in the square. That is, until the little Asian boy, slightly older than the little white girl, became annoyed with her, dropped her hands, and ran away as the little girl ran after him bawling. It was kind of funny.
In the same square, hours later, I saw a tour of the city on segways. Interesting way to get about.
Had dinner outside near a river where the waiter seemed astonished and borderline rude to Hannah because she wanted to order two sides for dinner rather than a meal and a side. Made things feel extremely awkward, and I had one of my rare moments of feeling both unforgiving and full of hatred for the waiter. Ah well, we started telling stories, and the feeling improved. The night of course came quickly to an end, as these things tend to, and S and I were off to bed in the loft of our different room in the same hostel--very warm in there.
We awoke at the crack of dawn to rush to the airport--ended up getting off one stop too early at the airport and had to hike a little ways to the correct spot. We survived our interviews with the Czech custom dept., I had the smallest cup of coffee of my life, and then we settled in for our 10-hour flight to Atlanta.
Atlanta people seem quite warm and friendly after Europe. I was unexpectedly in a great mood there. Weirdly, I wanted to chat with all the employees at the airport and distribute random hugs, but I resisted the urge and settled for a cup of Starbucks coffee.
S and I survived the remarkably bumpy ride to Indianapolis and arrived to find our ride's car battery had died. But eventually, we made it safely to Muncie for the night. All said, I think I was awake close to 24 hours that day, since we gained 6 hours.
And so ended the sojourn of this European vacation.

The Continuation of "Oh God! Go back!"

Friday last was our first full day in Prague, and we were determined to see as much of it as possible. I believe I've previously mentioned the Museum of Communism and the walking tour, and I briefly alluded to other events of that day, but really, there's so much more to tell.

After the tour completed, the four of us split into pairs to go see the places each was more interested in. Suzanne and I headed up to Prague Castle, which as its very name might suggest, is a highly popular tourist attraction. I found it to be a bit pricey because of its popularity. However, if one still carries a student i.d., as I conveniently do, one can get a discount in price. Sometimes that discount divides the cost in half. Is this dishonest? Yeah . . .but if I still look enough like the girl in my graduate i.d. pic to get away with it, I'm going to take advantage of the money saving. I'll go to confession later.

I might have mentioned some disappointment in this attraction. Yes, the St. Vitus Cathedral was phenomenal, and I probably have more pictures of this than anything b/c it has amazing stained glass windows which I love, and they didn't charge for picture taking like other places did. Can you believe how people will milk you for money? Geez. However, then Suzanne and I went to the St. George Basilica, which has been around since maybe the 13th century, but hasn't been kept up at all, so you can hardly see the murals on the walls. Almost nothing has been translated into English, so I couldn't tell what saint's sarcophagus rested there. There were bones in an altar, but again, couldn't tell whose. Then we went to the Royal Winter Palace. Doesn't that sound like it should be fantastic? Well, it wasn't. We only got to see about 6 rooms, none of which had much furniture it them. I had hoped to see the rooms laid out as though the royal family still visited there. Big disappointment.

Then it began to rain, and as my feet were aching, I told Suzanne I wanted to sit in the courtyard and watch the people rather than see something else I wasn't impressed with. Yeah, I was a bit grouchy. Poor Suzanne. I also wanted to hit up the post office there and stop by the bank-o-mat for some money, and hopefully to change one of my Czech bills into some change to purchase some passes for the tram. About 5:45, I head into the banking area, which says that it closes at 6. I approach a woman behind the desk who doesn't seem to be busy. My brain registers that she seems to be in charge of audio tours rather than banking, but I thought I could at least ask her about changing my money for me. I notice that the woman next to her is busy helping some others. As I ask this lady about changing my bills to change, she seems confused.
"You want me to change Czech money to euros?" she questions.
"No, I wondered if you could just give me the change for some of the Czech money I have. I'm trying to get change to buy a tram ticket, and the bills I get from your bank-o-mat are too large," I respond.
"I'm sorry. We are closed." She said this firmly and folds her arms over her chest as she stares at me.
Perhaps there was something lost in translation, but I could feel my temper flare up at her. I closed my mouth and glared at her. I glanced pointedly at the woman next to her still helping those others. Really, you're closed? Funny, your coworker isn't, and your sign says you're not. But I could see she wasn't budging, so I stomped out.
Suzanne appeared, and we decided to head out to meet Marty and Hannah at the mirror maze. We attempted for some minutes to find a ticket machine to ride the tram back down the hill as it was some distance to the maze, but we couldn't find one anywhere, so we began to walk. We attempted a short cut through a park that ended up taking us out of the way, so we retraced our steps. As we curved around the never-ending hill, Suzanne notices a path that seems to take a more direct route, so we head that way. Then she stops and turns back. Apparently the guy coming up on that other path thought it was quite deserted and didn't have all his clothes arranged the way he should for passersby. We hurried down the original path to get away from him.
Finally we are able to make it to a tram station and find a place that will sell us two 1-day tram/metro/bus passes with our large bills, so we hop on the tram and take it as closely as possible to where we are to meet. It is 7:15, and we're supposed to meet H and M at 6:30. We find our way to a park and realize we have to climb up a steep hill via stone steps. We glance at ech other, shrug our shoulders and keep going. Up and up and up. Finally we reach what looks like where we're supposed to be on the map. Nothing but a couple of restaurants. It's about 7:45, and we're quite hungry. We decide to eat at the cheap little place we find. S gets some potato cakes that taste like dishwater, and I get this hamburger that looks like a veggie burger, but has pink . . .something on the inside. It's disgusting. Then we begin our hike back down. We see a different path that looks less steep, and we're hurrying down. Suddenly I hear, "Oh God! Go back!"
Suzanne whirls around, and I catch a glimpse of a scraggly-looking guy with a half surprised, half excited look on his face, and I get a chill all over as I change directions to follow her. "Two in one day! I can't believe this!" I hear S exclaim. She's rather shaken and disgusted as she races along. I for some reason can't stop laughing rather hysterically at her tone--until I notice that the guy is following us up the path we've just taken, and then I bite my tongue to push myself almost to a jog. Nervously, I ask if he's still behind us, and I try to mentally prepare myself for how to defend myself, but I can't think of anything except fear. "Don't know," she gasps, and we keep going.
Finally we reach the bottom of the hill and other people, and we look behind us. Not there, thank God. We cut our losses with the maze and rush back to our hostel. No more drama today, please.

Oh, God. Go Back

Things will be messed up on this post b-c it is set for another language. This will probably be my last post here in Europe, but I will finish my stories upon mz return. The subject line is a quote. Yesterday Suzanne and I went to the Prague Castle. Disappointing. Will explain why more later. Suffice it to say for now that it was not what we had paid a lot for. We had to walk down to join Marty and Hannah at a mirror maze. The journey to the maze is reallz the interesting part, but no time now. Anyway, poor Suzanne saw two guys within the span of two hours expose themselves on our journey. Somehow I was spared the sight of this...Thank goodness. I did find a church to attend an English mass on Sunday==the Infant of Prague church has one at noon. Many stories to come, including explanation of above quote.

Short Update

I'm now in the city of Prague. We left Krakow at 6:50 a.m. two mornings ago and took a 7 hour train to Kutna Hora. Kutna Hora is a town in the Czech Republic and is famous for silver mines and this church called the Ossuary that is decorated with over 40 thousand bones.

The night we stayed in Kutna Hora, the four of us ventured down into the old silver mines. We had to put on hard hats and a white, doctor-like coat. It was cold and drippy in the mines with narrow passage ways. At times you had to squeeze your body through narrow crevices and under 4 foot ceilings. Needless to say, I've had more comfortable situations. Afterwards, Suzanne and I ventured out into the town on our own to find a restaurant. So far, we'd been lucky in finding a waiter who'd speak enough English to understand us. We lucked out again; however, I ended up with a massive bill b/c I ordered fish. Apparently, they charge by the gram for fish . . .wish I had known that before I ordered. What looked like something would cost 64 kc (Czech korunas) ended up being 204. Still not too much, but combined with other items, it hurt the pocket book a bit. Also unbeknownest to me is the format of the fish they serve. Apparently they like it very fresh here. They must have gone out back and grabbed it from the stream when I ordered it. When the waitress brought our plates, I exclaimed, "Oh that looks so good!" Suzanne responded, "Did you see the face on it?" Glancing down again, I jumped and shivered in surprise, as though having a minor seizure S said later. "Ewwhh!!! Hell no, I didn't see that! Its eye holes are following me!" I quickly cut off the skin and head and covered it with a napkin. Phew.

Suzanne and I proceeded out to walk back . . .and somehow lost our way. I think the multiple times we'd walked past different areas of the city started to meld together into one, indeterminable mess and we weren't sure when we had seen what. However, we finally made it back.

Yesterday afternoon we took another train to Prague, after a mad, thirty minute dash to the train station sweltering in the afternoon heat with our backpacks and etc weighing us down. As you probably imagine, I have the most crap, so I blame that for how much my feet hurt today.

It took what felt like FOREVER to get to our hostel/pension in Prague. What was supposed to be a ten minute walk took about 45. I hurt pretty badly after that. This morning I drug my tired body out of bed with the thought of taking a walking tour . . .was less than excited about that prospect. Man, I miss having my own car!! (However, I know it's a LOT healthier to walk to so many places.) We ended up going to the Museum of Communism--small but quite interesting. We thought to forego the walking tour until tomorrow, but then happened across it in Weneslaus (sp?) Square and joined up part way through. Presently we are waiting until 1 p.m. here to continue . . .hence my ability to check email and write here. I've heard some fantastic stories on this tour thus far. Will have to share more at a later time. I do go home in three days . . .I've decided that I'd like a good night's sleep and a better bathroom and shower. It's ok, but I tend to miss home after awhile. However, so far I've been glad to here. Later I will have to share my reflections on the different countries and groups of people I've observed here. Must go. I pay by minute for my internet usage.

Dust from the Trail

The past two days have been pretty great in terms of exploration. I really like Krakow. Our hostel here has been pleasant with AMAZING breakfasts provided by the employees. Really, I can't believe how little we have to pay to stay here and get this fantastic stuff. For example, this morning we had homemade crepes covered in fresh fruit, fresh bread with meat, cheese, and butter, coffee, cereal, etc. Oh, well, the beds themselves might be lacking somewhat . . .my pillow is so flat that I boosted it up with my dirty clothes (in plastic bag) last night, and my blankets seem to not completely cover me, but minor details really.

Um, Monday, the four of us took a mini bus out to the Salt Mines which have been in operation for hundreds of years. We went under ground about 120 meters and saw these amazing figures of miners, saints, and yes, gnomes under the ground. It was pretty great to say the least.

In the evening we went to the Krakow town square where there are old Gothic churches, a huge wide open space with a statue perfect for people watching, dozens of restaurants, and a great market place with tons of little stalls filled with things to buy . . .which of course I did buy some;) I absolutely loved it.

Today, Suzanne and I, after a very hastled running around, found our way to a bus that could take us to Auschwitz-Birchenau. We had to hurry through it so we could make it back in time to see a few things in Krakow still, as we are leaving town early tomorrow morning. The most chilling parts of it for me was an exhibit an entire room length (picture classroom size) that had human hair in it left over from the ovens. S and I also walked through a barrack left over from the actual camp. The reality of the suffering is so much more real when you can see the actual places. Very affecting for me.

We rushed to the bus to try to get back to Krakow in time to see a few churches and things before they closed for the day, but apparently the bus has to wait 30 minutes to allow for the slow people. Ironically, S hd been anxiously watching for the bus to arrive while I hurridly purchased a few postcards. It pulled up as I dropped my 8 zlotels on the counter and rushed out . . .only to chase after it with hands full as the bus pulled away again almost immediately. S and I screamed for it to wait, and then realized it was just trying to turn around. We sat for 30 sweating minutes on that bus observing others meander over without any concern they would miss their ride. Then we ran 1/4 of a mile to the next mini bus that would take us back to Krakow. (It's a 1 1/2 hour ride). We sat on that bus waiting for others for at least 10 minutes, arrived back too late to make it to St. Mary's Basilica to take pictures, although we were allowed to pray. Obviously, you won't be seeing pictures of that.

Then we made up for our disappointment by getting dinner from a Kebob stand . . .very popular here, very tasty, and quite cheap. What more could a poor traveler want? The seller of the food was so friendly. We wanted water, which you can't get on tap here (and thus not for free), and he asked us if we wanted "gas or no gas." Unsure of the correct answer, we blinked at him. Finally, we realized he meant soda water, and thus ordered "no gas." As we ate our meal in the square again, we enjoyed a group of about 8 Polish guys who did some break dancing to some American music (a lil Christina Aguilera in the mix) for the pleasure of the crowd. It was pretty fun to watch.

Presently I'm doing my laundry and getting ready for bed. Such a blast. Now what shall I do for pillow support tonight as my dirty clothes bag is now as flat as my pillow itself?