To answer some of the previous comments:
The cookies? Horrendous. Maybe it was my butter, or my sugar, or a gas oven that is temperamental, but the cookies tasted like the scraped off bottoms of really bad sugar cookies that have been sitting in a tin for about six weeks. Mixed with sand. Plus they looked like giant slug poops, which didn’t help anything.
My hair? I keep on forgetting to take my camera around. Soon, my friends, soon I'll show the curls in all their glory. For now though, you can get an idea of the length from the morning picture in one of the recent posts.
The men issues? I thought I already WAS crazy?
Sunday afternoon was spent alone. But to be fair? I slept from 12:00-1:00 and from 2:00-5:56 pm. And then I got ready for church again. So it wasn’t too sad. And then after church I went to L’s house with R and we got a pizza and his parents treated me like their long-lost daughter and it was beautiful and made me remember how much I miss company and people to say goodnight to, but also loud voices in the morning and someone to fight with over the bathroom. We spent the night, and I crashed on the sofa and while it wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, on Sunday night it was the best place in the world I could have been outside of perhaps snuggling with my little sister in a queen size bed and about 15 blankets.
Monday was a holiday, which I took without the slightest bit of guilt. None whatsoever. I got up when I got up and ate breakfast with Tia D and laughed with Tio D and then L drove us home. I’d made plans with a new friend who !surprise! called ME to see if I wanted to hang with her (usually I’m the one who makes the plans) and we ended up at my favorite not-so-secret place in the city, as evidenced by the fact that we had to wait for a table. But it was totally worth the wait. My friend brought a friend and we spent the morning and afternoon talking about politics and Brazilian culture and things we miss from home, theology and careers and men and razors…we walked through fake caverns and a scummy aquarium, wandered along the big lake where I ran into a friend from IBMEC (there is NOWHERE in this city I can go without being recognized!)…traipsed our way down to the best bookstore in the city, because it is open 24 hours a day. I bought a book and my friend ran into an acquaintance of hers from the beach (NO ONE, it seems, can walk around anonymous anymore). I got beach lady’s phone number, because she speaks French and English and German and Portuguese and is a translator. I need someone to practice my French with. Preferably over a chocolate mousse or crème brulee. (As evidenced by the fact that I don’t know if brulee has an accent or not).
Hungry now, again, we retreat to friend’s apartment in Leblon, which is empty of furniture and food but with a little creativity we roast an orange pepper and make pasta with pepper, black pepper and salt and olive oil. 4 ingredients if you count the spices. The pizza we got later that evening was better. But the chocolate coffee mousse that we ate after everything else convinced me that if I had just (just!) a couple thousand dollars more every month, the first thing I would do is move to Leblon, on the corner of the bookstore and the store with the mousse. And I would make myself walk miles every day, along the beach, so that I wouldn’t get fat on Guanabara pizza with fresh basil and the butteriest mozzarella in existence outside of Italy. Or the chocolate mousse. Or the lime pie. Or the…did I mention there was chocolate mousse?
I’m blissful right now.
And feeling a little vindicated, somehow, by the food and the holiday. It’s like God was saying, “Jenna, you were complaining that I’ve been rough on you and not tangible enough. How do hugs, a Brazilian family, great conversations with new friends, future career prospects and chocolate mousse sound to you? Do you *feel* loved now?”
Oh. I. Do.