When I think of the morning there,
there, where the orange Korean sun gently
brushes my cheek and greets us all
as we slowly sit silently in the crowded teacher workroom,
there, in a foreign land with a fauna of gifted lilies,
potted orchids, and ornamental grasses,
surrounded by a sea of bespectacled, black-haired teachers
(the song sang neems)
swimming against the undercurrent,
amidst waves of textbooks, workbooks and tissue boxes,
beneath discarded paper cups, juice bottles, and rice cakes,
feet swinging mildly
in high heeled flippers,
there I wait,
not with excitement or curiosity,
not with glistening eyes and a fluttering heart,
but calmly, for the daily bread,
the manna to sustain us through our long-winded days.
The door opens triumphantly
to reveal the principal with big smiling teeth and wire-rimmed glasses,
his balding, bobbing head propelling him to the front of the room.
Behind him, and over him,
the school chaplain,
ever impressive, ever stern, ever starched white shirt.
I bite my breath, and smile
all around the black heads bob like glimmering seals in a wave of greeting
as the mighty ships pass.
Unceremoniously, without greeting,
the pastor sounds:
“Chanson ga sa baek ship sam.”
Without pause, in one simple swell of movement,
the hymnal pages find their place.
I pause, and wait for
a song I won't really sing,
notes I don't really know,
with a tongue I do not have.
And I am left dry and hungry
amidst the seals barking.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sunday, September 7, 2008
How do you like them Alps?
I don't consider myself an athlete (just ask Herbert). However, I have put a few mountain tops under my feet on occasion. On Saturday one of the English teachers at Andy's school took us on a hike to one of the most famous mountains in this area. Mountains are actually all around us and look like - "Andy, how would you describe the mountains here?" - "Oh, just say like massive turtle shells, only pointy." Ah, yes. And I'd say imagine those shells covered with thick moss. They are quite pretty, but are certainly not the jagged snow-capped peaks we are used to. As with most Korean names, I have forgotten the name of this particular mountain, but Andy tells me it's called Mohawk Sun (that's my phonetic conversion).
In gazing upon the mountain from the bottom, it didn't look that high. Piece of cake for us hardcore B.C.-ers who climb REAL mountains. We got out of our car in the parking lot and Mr. Ahn started to gear up. By gear I mean his hiking boots, hiking pants, fanny-pack full of water, visor, white gloves, and the final touch: a towel placed around his neck. We were in shorts and running shoes and had a little water bottle clutched in our hands (the bottle proved to be quite annoying to carry, but I found a solution: between "the girls").
We got started, and about a half-hour into the hike, I started to get a bit winded. I mean, we were climbing straight up on stone stairs that soon became really rough and steep stone stairs. The teacher (Mr. Ahn) is around 50 years old and hikes a mountain before breakfast every Sunday faster than most people. This would have been useful information before I wore my thickest, tightest shorts that were clinging to me for dear life. I had dudes in dress clothes passing me. I had old ladies passing me. I was telling myself the story of the Little Engine that Could as I willed my body up the stones. I wondered if Andy would be embarassed if I crawled.
Finally, we reached the top where we learned that it is customary to have some wine. Wine? Now? Before I start my descent on noodle legs? Not only was it wine, but there were ice chunks in it and it tasted like mould. It was apparently ginseng wine - velly good for you, it delicious. I was starting to get a little woozy, plus it was disgusting, so it was thrown in the bushes. We were encouraged to also have some snacks. Er, no thanks. I don't usually eat chilli peppers, onion chunks, and garlic stems dipped in bean/chilli sauce on the tops of mountains. Do they plan to ride down on clouds of bad breath?
The view was spectacular, though. We could see all of Jeonju in the distance, plus many other mountains. It was a beautiful day with a blue sky and the air was pretty clear. Also, it was really bad timing for me to not bring the camera. I considered bringing it, but decided that it would be annoying to carry all the way up there. In hindsight, I'm still divided as to my actions. On the one hand, I probably would have thrown the thing over a cliff to lighten my load; on the other, the view was pretty awesome and it's too bad I can't share it with you.
We took a different path on the trip down, which was much better. Not only that, it was really quite pretty. We were able to chat a little more and learn more about Korea. Apparently, hiking is more popular with women. Over the past few years women's roles have been changing. No longer do couples have as many children, so women have more free time. They are now able to get together with friends to hang out. Interesting.
So, that was our hike yesterday. This morning my calves reminded me that I'm not an athlete and would I kindly be sure to stretch a little more next time?
In gazing upon the mountain from the bottom, it didn't look that high. Piece of cake for us hardcore B.C.-ers who climb REAL mountains. We got out of our car in the parking lot and Mr. Ahn started to gear up. By gear I mean his hiking boots, hiking pants, fanny-pack full of water, visor, white gloves, and the final touch: a towel placed around his neck. We were in shorts and running shoes and had a little water bottle clutched in our hands (the bottle proved to be quite annoying to carry, but I found a solution: between "the girls").
We got started, and about a half-hour into the hike, I started to get a bit winded. I mean, we were climbing straight up on stone stairs that soon became really rough and steep stone stairs. The teacher (Mr. Ahn) is around 50 years old and hikes a mountain before breakfast every Sunday faster than most people. This would have been useful information before I wore my thickest, tightest shorts that were clinging to me for dear life. I had dudes in dress clothes passing me. I had old ladies passing me. I was telling myself the story of the Little Engine that Could as I willed my body up the stones. I wondered if Andy would be embarassed if I crawled.
Finally, we reached the top where we learned that it is customary to have some wine. Wine? Now? Before I start my descent on noodle legs? Not only was it wine, but there were ice chunks in it and it tasted like mould. It was apparently ginseng wine - velly good for you, it delicious. I was starting to get a little woozy, plus it was disgusting, so it was thrown in the bushes. We were encouraged to also have some snacks. Er, no thanks. I don't usually eat chilli peppers, onion chunks, and garlic stems dipped in bean/chilli sauce on the tops of mountains. Do they plan to ride down on clouds of bad breath?
The view was spectacular, though. We could see all of Jeonju in the distance, plus many other mountains. It was a beautiful day with a blue sky and the air was pretty clear. Also, it was really bad timing for me to not bring the camera. I considered bringing it, but decided that it would be annoying to carry all the way up there. In hindsight, I'm still divided as to my actions. On the one hand, I probably would have thrown the thing over a cliff to lighten my load; on the other, the view was pretty awesome and it's too bad I can't share it with you.
We took a different path on the trip down, which was much better. Not only that, it was really quite pretty. We were able to chat a little more and learn more about Korea. Apparently, hiking is more popular with women. Over the past few years women's roles have been changing. No longer do couples have as many children, so women have more free time. They are now able to get together with friends to hang out. Interesting.
So, that was our hike yesterday. This morning my calves reminded me that I'm not an athlete and would I kindly be sure to stretch a little more next time?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Under a New Umbrella
Tonight we walked home in the rain - laughing, chatting, sharing an umbrella amidst the busy streets of Jeonju, Korea. My hand clutched his arm tightly so we could both avoid the warm August rain (it dripped off our elbows anyway). The sun was freshly set, nestled behind the lush mountains in the distance, though there were buildings in the way as we walked. Cars contantly honked as we jumped over puddles and dashed by turning white cars. I don't think they paint cars any colours besides white, silver, and black (our little Jellybean would stick out much like we do, even with its dull finish). In an attempt to have appropriate footwear, I had mistakenly worn my cheap Payless shoes all day - not only did I have blisters, but my feet reeked to high heaven when I took them off to enter restaurants or schools.
In our stomachs we each had yet another free Korean meal from the pockets of generous strangers in suits and ties with embedded rhinestones. Tonight, I had confidently poured the entire contents of a little dish onto my rice bowl (containing all sorts of strange bits). Apparently I was only supposed to add a few drops and so made the dish kind of gross by accident. The one principal, AKA, Andy's boss, (he who does not speak any English at all and forgets that we speak no Korean and so will look right at us and speak a mile a minute in Korean - kinda funny) switched mine with his, and had to get an extra order of rice to tone it down. This was the third meal we had shared with principals, sitting around tables, conversing in broken
English and gestures (and me secretly gagging everything down).
It's new, but it's good. Very good. And we are wet and smiling as we climb the stairs to our new little apartment that smells just a bit like sewer. Tomorrow we may buy bicycles and maybe some new shoes.
In our stomachs we each had yet another free Korean meal from the pockets of generous strangers in suits and ties with embedded rhinestones. Tonight, I had confidently poured the entire contents of a little dish onto my rice bowl (containing all sorts of strange bits). Apparently I was only supposed to add a few drops and so made the dish kind of gross by accident. The one principal, AKA, Andy's boss, (he who does not speak any English at all and forgets that we speak no Korean and so will look right at us and speak a mile a minute in Korean - kinda funny) switched mine with his, and had to get an extra order of rice to tone it down. This was the third meal we had shared with principals, sitting around tables, conversing in broken
English and gestures (and me secretly gagging everything down).It's new, but it's good. Very good. And we are wet and smiling as we climb the stairs to our new little apartment that smells just a bit like sewer. Tomorrow we may buy bicycles and maybe some new shoes.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Eats, shoots, and leaves
This post is dedicated to Miss Smith.
Most people assume that once English teachers leave the confines of their classrooms, they continue obsessively proofreading wherever they go. You know, they take out their Sharpies mid-squat in the bathroom stalls and place an 're to the "your a b--ch." Or they ask for the manager at Red Robin because they were a little too heavy with the apostrophes on their nacho's. Or they giggle with glee when they find a red pen in their purses to more effectively correct the errors in the church bulletins (far more entertaining than sudoku could ever be).
I was going to write about being a nerd. I was inspired by my evening of tootling around on the computer with Lord of the Rings playing on the TV in the background. I then reached for a cookie and couldn't help but notice that my sinful little mini sandwiches are called Double Stuf Oreos. And I think it was at that point the English teacher in me began to rage. I inhaled dramatically and sort of got some cookie crumbs lodged in my lungs or something. I started mumbling about how it's no wonder my students can't spell worth sheet. I automatically had a list run through my head of all the companies trying to be all hip and stuf with their marketing. Like, for instance, I hate it when restaurants write "late nite" on their signs. Oooh, what about "drive thru?" Ca man! Put a little more f into the "effing" part of market-effing-strategy.
You can check out the messed up grocers' signs to test your editing skills. It's fun.
Most people assume that once English teachers leave the confines of their classrooms, they continue obsessively proofreading wherever they go. You know, they take out their Sharpies mid-squat in the bathroom stalls and place an 're to the "your a b--ch." Or they ask for the manager at Red Robin because they were a little too heavy with the apostrophes on their nacho's. Or they giggle with glee when they find a red pen in their purses to more effectively correct the errors in the church bulletins (far more entertaining than sudoku could ever be).
I was going to write about being a nerd. I was inspired by my evening of tootling around on the computer with Lord of the Rings playing on the TV in the background. I then reached for a cookie and couldn't help but notice that my sinful little mini sandwiches are called Double Stuf Oreos. And I think it was at that point the English teacher in me began to rage. I inhaled dramatically and sort of got some cookie crumbs lodged in my lungs or something. I started mumbling about how it's no wonder my students can't spell worth sheet. I automatically had a list run through my head of all the companies trying to be all hip and stuf with their marketing. Like, for instance, I hate it when restaurants write "late nite" on their signs. Oooh, what about "drive thru?" Ca man! Put a little more f into the "effing" part of market-effing-strategy.
You can check out the messed up grocers' signs to test your editing skills. It's fun.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
So Much for Good Lent-tentions
On Ash Wednesday, I did a morning devo with my students about Lent. I pretty much copied what was said from the pulpit on Sunday, but whatever. I sounded smart, and that's what matters. Anyway, I told my class confidently that I was giving up chocolate for Lent and was going to replace chocolate with praying more specifically for my family. My students left class that day being inspired by my pious example.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
Sidebar: In my defense, on Sunday our pastor had said that back in the day the Catholics would fast from sex, even, during Lent. a) I assumed everyone would know that. b) Thank you Jesus that I'm not Catholic!All right, so that was dinner. Around came dessert time, and out of the magical kitchen (wo)manned by ladies with bun hair, appeared these squares with cream cheese filling, and chocolate pudding on top. It looked pretty good. Except, with my big fat mouth, everyone knew I couldn't eat chocolate. However, I never specified which KIND of chocolate, and clearly pudding is in a totally different category than, say, chocolate bars. I had a whole table witness my first step into denial and also my first strike as a faster. The dessert wasn't really that good, though. I think my guilt tainted its choclatude.
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Barf-tacular Glory
Sorely disappointed.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Grand Return
Can I get away with saying that I forgot I had a blog? And that I just happened to stumble upon it, like, just this second? Would anyone believe me? Could my previous track record of brain farts carry my excuse that far?
Yes. The answer is yes.
The truth is, I have made one of those resolutions that I usually never make. I hate starting off the year doomed to failure. Over the holidays, Andy and I sat in a little restaurant called The Blue Fox and proclaimed our resolutions to each other over breakfast and hot bevvies with the optimism that only New Year's Day can bring. Our ideas carried us beyond this year and into the next years, until I found myself wrapped up in a soft grey blanket (with my socked feet sticking out) on a veranda overlooking the water somewhere. I like those conversations. And I like dreaming with someone who will be with me through all my resolutions.
As for this year's resolution, you've probably guessed it by now: resurrect this lonely little text box and feed it words from time to time. I do have stories to tell, moments that demand recording. I do have some words in my possession (but apparently some aren't even REAL, as I recently learned playing Scrabble --who knew that "rex" and "lez" aren't legit words?).
And so, it is with great pleasure, and a little trepidation, that I open this blog for 2008. Scissors, please.
Yes. The answer is yes.
The truth is, I have made one of those resolutions that I usually never make. I hate starting off the year doomed to failure. Over the holidays, Andy and I sat in a little restaurant called The Blue Fox and proclaimed our resolutions to each other over breakfast and hot bevvies with the optimism that only New Year's Day can bring. Our ideas carried us beyond this year and into the next years, until I found myself wrapped up in a soft grey blanket (with my socked feet sticking out) on a veranda overlooking the water somewhere. I like those conversations. And I like dreaming with someone who will be with me through all my resolutions.
As for this year's resolution, you've probably guessed it by now: resurrect this lonely little text box and feed it words from time to time. I do have stories to tell, moments that demand recording. I do have some words in my possession (but apparently some aren't even REAL, as I recently learned playing Scrabble --who knew that "rex" and "lez" aren't legit words?).
And so, it is with great pleasure, and a little trepidation, that I open this blog for 2008. Scissors, please.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Jolly
We have a freezer full of gourmet cupcakes leftover from the wedding. They are pink with pink chocolate shavings on top and seriously send a warm glow of happiness all the way down to my toes with each and every bite. We just got them back last night from a friend who stored them for us over our honeymoon. However, the pile was not as large as I remember...My friend admitted that they may have tapped into just a few dozen (I mean, we did leave those innocent little cupcakes in their freezer for six weeks -- TORTURE). Apparently it was all Charis's idea whenever she came over. I'm soooo not surprised and I'm a little bit proud of my friends for doing EXACTLY what I would have done.
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Great Invention
I teach Social Studies 9 now. These kids are fresh out of Middle School, and haven't yet gotten used to the ways of big kids.
Today I was doing a homework check with my 9s, and I told them it would only take about four minutes, so they were allowed to just sit quietly and review their notes until I was finished.
Riiiiiight.
I had to raise my voice above the din, and explain to them that high school students do this thing called "chilling." You know, where they sort of just relax, stare at the wall, maybe doodle a bit. That worked for about a minute, but then they started to get nutty again. I had about four kids left to check, when I came up with the most brilliant invention.
A new game.
In my deepest, most confident voice, I bellowed, "OK, we are all going to play a game that you are probably familiar with. I need everybody to put their heads DOWN."
A titter rippled through the class, and I heard a few ask, "Are we playing seven up?"
"Heads DOWN!"
"Are we--"
"Heads DOWN!" Most of them seemed to be following. "OK, now heads down, SHUT UP!"
"Wha--"
"HEADS DOWN, SHUT UP!" I must have repeated that a few times. Finally, I think they got the point.
And they were silent. It was glorious.
After I finished my final homework check, I raised my head and commanded them, "Heads UP, SHUT UP. Yes, heads up, SHUT UP!"
You see, I invented a wonderful game. Seven Up: High School Version.
Today I was doing a homework check with my 9s, and I told them it would only take about four minutes, so they were allowed to just sit quietly and review their notes until I was finished.
Riiiiiight.
I had to raise my voice above the din, and explain to them that high school students do this thing called "chilling." You know, where they sort of just relax, stare at the wall, maybe doodle a bit. That worked for about a minute, but then they started to get nutty again. I had about four kids left to check, when I came up with the most brilliant invention.
A new game.
In my deepest, most confident voice, I bellowed, "OK, we are all going to play a game that you are probably familiar with. I need everybody to put their heads DOWN."
A titter rippled through the class, and I heard a few ask, "Are we playing seven up?"
"Heads DOWN!"
"Are we--"
"Heads DOWN!" Most of them seemed to be following. "OK, now heads down, SHUT UP!"
"Wha--"
"HEADS DOWN, SHUT UP!" I must have repeated that a few times. Finally, I think they got the point.
And they were silent. It was glorious.
After I finished my final homework check, I raised my head and commanded them, "Heads UP, SHUT UP. Yes, heads up, SHUT UP!"
You see, I invented a wonderful game. Seven Up: High School Version.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Culinary Prowess
Andy loves to cook meat. I think it makes him feel very MANLY. What's even better is when he gets to cook it on our brand-new BBQ! (There weren't many wedding presents that made him really excited. I can't imagine why --I find platters and napkins and crockpots HIGHLY exciting). He'll get out all the fancy tongs and flippers and whatnots, carefully select appropriate bbq sauces or marinades, and zip back and forth between the kitchen and the grill with a bit of a spring in his step (those little feet are excellent at springing). He often tries to convince me of all sorts of delicious morsels you can cook on that thing (and which I should "permit" him to cook). Mostly, though, he sticks to the classics: hot dogs, steaks, chicken, and fish. When he cooks salmon he even likes to make a special little sauce for it (and it's actually pretty darn good).
When we moved in together, we melded food supplies. For a bachelor, Andy had a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen. He contributed more boxes and dishes than I did. It was kind of neat seeing that we had a similar taste in food, too. In fact, our spice cupboard is pretty funny because we each had the exact same spices, and so now we have two of everything. The freezer is now full of a much more adult variety -- meats, different kinds of breads and ice creams. I haven't had a chance to even see what all he's put in there.
On Sunday afternoon we had Charis over for lunch after church. Usually I like to have pancakes on Sundays, but the last couple times I made them they were, er, under par. We decided we'd serve the classic smokeys, pop and chips trio. I grabbed some weiners from the freezer, handed them to the bbq king, and started munching on the chippies as I visited my dear friend. We sat down to eat, and I took one bite and gave a very weird expression to Andy. He paused mid-chew, and returned the very odd look. What THE HELL is wrong with my hot dog? I started to worry that we were eating something very freezer burnt, or very poisonous and wrong (and we were feeding it to a breast-feeding mommy). Finally, Andy concluded that it was farmer's sausage. Breakfast farmer's sausage. Well, at least it's edible. And hey, I've never had barbequed breakfast sausage before, on a bun. Apparently I handed him the wrong package, and he unwittingly cooked them (I say the blame is double-sided).
Then, last night, Andy fired up the bbq again (I think to redeem our previous experience). I came home to find him mixing his special salmon marinade, with the rice-cooker steaming away. Awwwww. So, I whipped up a salad and waited for him to finish the fish. And I waited. He finally came back in looking concerned, and he apologized, saying the fish took a while, but now it feels really rubbery. Rubbery? I took one look at it and burst out laughing.
It was chicken.
Yes, with the special fish sauce.
Don't worry. Normally we don't have as many little mishaps in the kitchen. If you come over for dinner, I promise it will be yummy. And if not, well, you'll at least have a story to tell -- something worthy of Reader's Digest, perhaps?
When we moved in together, we melded food supplies. For a bachelor, Andy had a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen. He contributed more boxes and dishes than I did. It was kind of neat seeing that we had a similar taste in food, too. In fact, our spice cupboard is pretty funny because we each had the exact same spices, and so now we have two of everything. The freezer is now full of a much more adult variety -- meats, different kinds of breads and ice creams. I haven't had a chance to even see what all he's put in there.
On Sunday afternoon we had Charis over for lunch after church. Usually I like to have pancakes on Sundays, but the last couple times I made them they were, er, under par. We decided we'd serve the classic smokeys, pop and chips trio. I grabbed some weiners from the freezer, handed them to the bbq king, and started munching on the chippies as I visited my dear friend. We sat down to eat, and I took one bite and gave a very weird expression to Andy. He paused mid-chew, and returned the very odd look. What THE HELL is wrong with my hot dog? I started to worry that we were eating something very freezer burnt, or very poisonous and wrong (and we were feeding it to a breast-feeding mommy). Finally, Andy concluded that it was farmer's sausage. Breakfast farmer's sausage. Well, at least it's edible. And hey, I've never had barbequed breakfast sausage before, on a bun. Apparently I handed him the wrong package, and he unwittingly cooked them (I say the blame is double-sided).
Then, last night, Andy fired up the bbq again (I think to redeem our previous experience). I came home to find him mixing his special salmon marinade, with the rice-cooker steaming away. Awwwww. So, I whipped up a salad and waited for him to finish the fish. And I waited. He finally came back in looking concerned, and he apologized, saying the fish took a while, but now it feels really rubbery. Rubbery? I took one look at it and burst out laughing.
It was chicken.
Yes, with the special fish sauce.
Don't worry. Normally we don't have as many little mishaps in the kitchen. If you come over for dinner, I promise it will be yummy. And if not, well, you'll at least have a story to tell -- something worthy of Reader's Digest, perhaps?
Monday, September 10, 2007
Out with the old, in with the new
I'm not dead. Promise. However, I think the old me has died a little. I have a different name, a different house, a different ROOMMATE, and a different teaching position. I now make the bed in the morning (most days), arrive to school on time (with lunch AND coffee in tow), hand back my assignments within a reasonable amount of time, have people over for dinner parties, buy cards for people in ADVANCE, brilliantly talk about Napoleon's war tactics, and basically exude awesomeness wherever I go.
I do miss the old me sometimes. I miss the girl who would post on her blog a little more regularly. The girl screeching into the parking lot moments before the second bell. The girl with discarded coffee mugs littered throughout her classroom, and molding pumpkins lurking in corners. The girl who was a flailing disaster.
I suppose it is a natural time for reflection: I've been married one month today. Everyone asks me how married life is, and I say with a smile, "Great!" I find it difficult to put into words how truly great it is, and do what we have any justice. It's enough to change me, refine me, peace me. I now get roses on my pillow, coffee with Bailey's handed to me, someone to drive my car, an EXTENSIVE music library, whispers, and unabashed farting. But it's more than what I simply get. It's also what I get to give -- so much is in me, waiting to be poured out. I'm on a Jolly Jumper inside, not quite sure how my muscles and everything work, but givin' 'er just the same. (uh, that was a serious metaphor - no innuendo intended)
I wonder how the old me will be manifested in this new me that is now two people -- both, coincidentally, being former disasters.
I do miss the old me sometimes. I miss the girl who would post on her blog a little more regularly. The girl screeching into the parking lot moments before the second bell. The girl with discarded coffee mugs littered throughout her classroom, and molding pumpkins lurking in corners. The girl who was a flailing disaster.
I suppose it is a natural time for reflection: I've been married one month today. Everyone asks me how married life is, and I say with a smile, "Great!" I find it difficult to put into words how truly great it is, and do what we have any justice. It's enough to change me, refine me, peace me. I now get roses on my pillow, coffee with Bailey's handed to me, someone to drive my car, an EXTENSIVE music library, whispers, and unabashed farting. But it's more than what I simply get. It's also what I get to give -- so much is in me, waiting to be poured out. I'm on a Jolly Jumper inside, not quite sure how my muscles and everything work, but givin' 'er just the same. (uh, that was a serious metaphor - no innuendo intended)
I wonder how the old me will be manifested in this new me that is now two people -- both, coincidentally, being former disasters.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
setting
i must capture this setting sun
this moment of warmth
that runs over my bones
beneath blankets of light
i must dip my hands in golden water
in waves of laughter
giggling the shore
i must firm the hand fit to mine
set to draw all that is in me
out
no more drifting wood
i must keep my head thrown back
my mouth wide as i twirl in wild abandon
drinking in the miracle
anticipating the dawn
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Country Mouse, City Mouse
I pretty much grew up in the bush just outside of Prince George. You know, where mud pies, bugs (mosquitos, spiders, ants), tree-forts, wildflowers, massive snow drifts, and critters are in abundance (one time we had some moose walk through our yard). I liked that we had to run down a muddy dirt road to catch the bus with our jackets half on and our lunchboxes flapping against our legs. I liked that when I was in grade five, the grade seven graduating class had three students. I liked that when you drove down the road and met a car, you gave them a little wave because that's just what you did in the country. I liked that it didn't even matter that we only had two snowy channels on the TV-- I, instead, got lost in a world where the imagination brought a whole world of entertainment. I liked the country. I liked its solitude, its simplicity, its speed.
Then we moved to the "big city" of P.G. where it smelled no longer of wild grasses and trees, but pulp mills! I remembered realizing how sheltered I had been from the world, especially city life. I can clearly recall the day when my friend Tracey taught me what J-walking was. But I mean, it was Prince George, so the hick in me was still a little bit at home. (Last night I actually dreamt of our house in P.G. and it had all been renovated. I wonder if we renovate our memories -- people give us a little bit more detail, or something triggers an additional memory and we add it to the pile.)
Kamloops was next, then Vancouver. It was a pretty big jump to go from the 'Loops to the 'Couv. In Kamloops we'd spend lazy summer afternoons floading down the river beneath the desert-like hills. Often when people drive through Kamloops they comment on what an ugly city it is, and I'm always shocked. I find its geography to be quite stunning and unique -- nowhere else in Canada is like that (people study Kamloops in Geography classes, you know). Plus, I lived there and knew its people, its hidden charms. But, when I had to leave, I was really excited to move to a REAL city -- it was like my evolution would then be complete.
The jump wasn't really that big, though. Sometimes it would hit me kind of funny that I was living in such a big place of culture and ideas and noise and speed. But I liked it. I was ready for it. I would go for walks around my neighbourhood and feel oddly connected to the people outside trimming their lawns or walking their dogs, even though I never talked to them. There's something magical about Vancouver; everyone can feel it.
I have been living on the fourth floor of an apartment building in Aldergrove for two months now. It's crazy. Again there's that sense of everyone being connected, yet we don't really talk to each other. When I'm in the elevator and someone comes in, I'm not sure what to do with myself (and I think I'm generally friendly). Sometimes we chit chat about the weather, and sometimes it's really awkward and I just look at the red numbers changing as we go past floors.
This morning my sleepy ears were met with the sounds of hammers, people laughing, screaming babies, doors slamming, and it was the weirdest thing. All of that chaos was going on at once, in the same place. I looked out my window and could see six pick-up trucks filled with possessions and a whole bunch of friends scurrying around, helping a family move. (I was reminded of when my sister and I would find the biggest ant hills and kick the crap out of them, just so we could see all the ants go nuts.) Other people leaving the building would open the doors to help the army of movers; meanwhile, people were installing hardwood floors in the apartment below me. This bustling of activity made me feel part of something. Part of a community, oddly enough. Then the theme song from Mr. Rogers Neighbourhood began to play -- and I figured it was time to end this post.
t. end.
Then we moved to the "big city" of P.G. where it smelled no longer of wild grasses and trees, but pulp mills! I remembered realizing how sheltered I had been from the world, especially city life. I can clearly recall the day when my friend Tracey taught me what J-walking was. But I mean, it was Prince George, so the hick in me was still a little bit at home. (Last night I actually dreamt of our house in P.G. and it had all been renovated. I wonder if we renovate our memories -- people give us a little bit more detail, or something triggers an additional memory and we add it to the pile.)
Kamloops was next, then Vancouver. It was a pretty big jump to go from the 'Loops to the 'Couv. In Kamloops we'd spend lazy summer afternoons floading down the river beneath the desert-like hills. Often when people drive through Kamloops they comment on what an ugly city it is, and I'm always shocked. I find its geography to be quite stunning and unique -- nowhere else in Canada is like that (people study Kamloops in Geography classes, you know). Plus, I lived there and knew its people, its hidden charms. But, when I had to leave, I was really excited to move to a REAL city -- it was like my evolution would then be complete.
The jump wasn't really that big, though. Sometimes it would hit me kind of funny that I was living in such a big place of culture and ideas and noise and speed. But I liked it. I was ready for it. I would go for walks around my neighbourhood and feel oddly connected to the people outside trimming their lawns or walking their dogs, even though I never talked to them. There's something magical about Vancouver; everyone can feel it.
I have been living on the fourth floor of an apartment building in Aldergrove for two months now. It's crazy. Again there's that sense of everyone being connected, yet we don't really talk to each other. When I'm in the elevator and someone comes in, I'm not sure what to do with myself (and I think I'm generally friendly). Sometimes we chit chat about the weather, and sometimes it's really awkward and I just look at the red numbers changing as we go past floors.
This morning my sleepy ears were met with the sounds of hammers, people laughing, screaming babies, doors slamming, and it was the weirdest thing. All of that chaos was going on at once, in the same place. I looked out my window and could see six pick-up trucks filled with possessions and a whole bunch of friends scurrying around, helping a family move. (I was reminded of when my sister and I would find the biggest ant hills and kick the crap out of them, just so we could see all the ants go nuts.) Other people leaving the building would open the doors to help the army of movers; meanwhile, people were installing hardwood floors in the apartment below me. This bustling of activity made me feel part of something. Part of a community, oddly enough. Then the theme song from Mr. Rogers Neighbourhood began to play -- and I figured it was time to end this post.
t. end.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Lots of Urgent Right Now, It Seems
Tyrrany of the Urgent
Charles E. Hummel
When we stop to evaluate, we realize that our dilemma goes deeper than shortage of time; it is basically the problem of priorities. Hard work does not hurt us. We all know what it is to go full speed for long hours, totally involved in an important task. The resulting weariness is matched by a sense of achievement and joy. Not hard work, but doubt and misgiving produce anxiety as we review a month or year and become oppressed by the pile of unfinished tasks. We sense uneasily that we may have failed to do the important. The winds of other people's demands have driven us onto a reef of frustration. We confess, quite apart from our sins, "We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done."
Several years ago an experienced cotton mill manager said to me, "Your greatest danger is letting the urgent things crowd out the important." He didn't realize how hard his maxim hit. It often returns to haunt and rebuke me by raising the critical problem of priorities.
We live in constant tension between the urgent and the important. The problem is that the important task must rarely be done today or even this week. Extra hours of prayer and Bible study, a visit with a friend, careful study of an important book: these projects can wait. But the urgent tasks call for instant action -- endless demands pressure every hour and day.
A man's home is no longer his castle; it is no longer a place away from ugent tasks because the telephone breaches the walls with imperious demands. The momentary appeal of these tasks seems irresistible and imortant, and they devour our energy. But in the light of time's perspective their deceptive prominence fades; with a sense of loss we recall the important task pushed aside. We realize we've become slaves to the tyrrany of the urgent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
True, but I still have to get my report cards done and my wedding organized. I still have to go to all the year-end bbqs and ceremonies, the wedding showers, the actual weddings, and so on.
Coffee is going to have to wait for a bit.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
RSVP
So many people are planning on wearing bells to our wedding.
How odd.
1) I mean, I guess bells can be fashionable -- Santa (not Satan, although sometimes I think there is a connection between them: they both wear red a lot) has been wearing bells of all shapes and sizes for decades.
2) And, well, Andy and I are both quite musical, so it is fitting.
3) Lately I've been fiddling with all sorts of bells and whistles, too, so maybe people think I really like bells or something.
4) Plus, I'm a teacher and my entire day is pretty much determined by, yes, bells again.
5) As you may have noticed, bell is also a fun/weird word if you say (read, write) it over and over and over again. There is a labialized l sound in there, I think.
Fine [exasperated sigh]. If you want to wear bells to our wedding, I'm all for it. I love symbolism.
It might be weird if people wore whistles, though (oh, but I do whistle while I work, so I guess there is a connection there).
How odd.
1) I mean, I guess bells can be fashionable -- Santa (not Satan, although sometimes I think there is a connection between them: they both wear red a lot) has been wearing bells of all shapes and sizes for decades.
2) And, well, Andy and I are both quite musical, so it is fitting.
3) Lately I've been fiddling with all sorts of bells and whistles, too, so maybe people think I really like bells or something.
4) Plus, I'm a teacher and my entire day is pretty much determined by, yes, bells again.
5) As you may have noticed, bell is also a fun/weird word if you say (read, write) it over and over and over again. There is a labialized l sound in there, I think.
Fine [exasperated sigh]. If you want to wear bells to our wedding, I'm all for it. I love symbolism.
It might be weird if people wore whistles, though (oh, but I do whistle while I work, so I guess there is a connection there).
Friday, June 8, 2007
Licking
Remember that Seinfeld show? Well, I sure do; in fact, I find it quite brilliant. There are many episodes that I carry around in my heart of hearts.
So, I'm working on invitations, see, and one such episode pops into my head: where George's fiance (Carol??) is licking envelopes and DIES. Right. So here I am, readying myself for the massive lick-fest, and I can't help but pause. Am I willing to DIE for this? Do I want to get married so bad that I will risk DYING? (This could be the beginning of a very deep inner scrutiny, but I will save you from that for today.)
Then my little brain went a step further. I'm pretty sick right now. I'm on my SECOND day of not going to work (which is saying a lot, cuz I hardly ever call in sick). I have one of those viruses that would wipe out the motherboard of your computer, that could fill the rivers with phlegm (and be much more of a concern than the ice caps melting), and that makes a chronic smoker's cough look like child's play. And I plan on smearing this virus ALL OVER every single envelope. Awesomeness!!
So, either I will die whilst licking, or I will pass on a nasty virus to the unsuspecting innocent.
Maybe I should go buy a sponge or something. Or just make Andy do all the work and have a nap instead. Ooh, I like the latter.
So, I'm working on invitations, see, and one such episode pops into my head: where George's fiance (Carol??) is licking envelopes and DIES. Right. So here I am, readying myself for the massive lick-fest, and I can't help but pause. Am I willing to DIE for this? Do I want to get married so bad that I will risk DYING? (This could be the beginning of a very deep inner scrutiny, but I will save you from that for today.)
Then my little brain went a step further. I'm pretty sick right now. I'm on my SECOND day of not going to work (which is saying a lot, cuz I hardly ever call in sick). I have one of those viruses that would wipe out the motherboard of your computer, that could fill the rivers with phlegm (and be much more of a concern than the ice caps melting), and that makes a chronic smoker's cough look like child's play. And I plan on smearing this virus ALL OVER every single envelope. Awesomeness!!
So, either I will die whilst licking, or I will pass on a nasty virus to the unsuspecting innocent.
Maybe I should go buy a sponge or something. Or just make Andy do all the work and have a nap instead. Ooh, I like the latter.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
M.I.A.
To Whom It May Concern,
I have lost my voice. All I seem to be able to find is a squeak (and sometimes phlegm balls). If you happen to stumble upon my voice, I'd like it back. I can be reached at 555-TALK.
Thank-you,
Bott
I have lost my voice. All I seem to be able to find is a squeak (and sometimes phlegm balls). If you happen to stumble upon my voice, I'd like it back. I can be reached at 555-TALK.
Thank-you,
Bott
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