Museums aren't for everyone, but I was so impressed by this exhibit that for a moment, I was entertaining the thought of making a quick trip back to the Other American Continent...
Plenty of other bloggers are talking about this and much more eloquently. Just go there...look at the design inventions. Maybe get inspired yourself!
Also, did anyone else read the Palin/Couric interview transcripts and just shake their heads? I don't even understand what she tried to say. Maybe Alaskans speak another dialect of English???
Oh, I cannot wait for elections to be over, in both countries! If you think political campaigns are annoying in the U.S., please, imagine EVERY POLITICIAN purchasing external sound systems, attaching them to old cars, and driving through town while blasting a promotional loop of 30 seconds that includes obnoxious music in addition to ridiculous campaign slogans. Or worse, parking on your corner for 15 or 20 minutes without turning off the sound. It is deafening. Annoying. Just elect the next bloodsucker and let's be done with it!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Foods for an Economic Meltdown
I have expensive tastes.
In pretty much everything, from shoes to handbags to unlined notebooks.
But it is in the culinary realm, being more affordable for my wallet, that I actually get to indulge those expensive tastes. Little things can make such a difference: a hunk of real cheddar cheese (imported from England) or a wedge of Pecorino; French butter (makes breakfast luxurious!); real, all-fruit jam; sushi; ah, friends, the list goes on and on.
Gourmet meals are all well and good when they don't put a pinch on one's budget, but with the dollar fluctuating like a teenager's emotional state and future prospects hovering on grim, I've been paring back my little treats. Now is a good a time as any to figure out what to do with all those dried beans sitting in my freezer.
So today's recipe is thanks to a bit of forward thinking on my part. I actually SOAKED chickpeas the other day, which makes cooking them up a breeze, just about 15 minutes in the pressure cooker. I mashed the cooked beans up with some garlic, salt and olive oil before remembering that I don't really like hummus all that much. Soooo...experimentation time! I added some pepper, oregano, and cumin, along with shredded carrot, zucchini and cheese (Parmesan and some generic white cheese) and a handful of cracker crumbs. It tasted pretty decent by that point, so I patted them into rough burger shapes and pan-fried in olive oil.
Now, I know. Veggie burgers have nothing on real burgers. But price, health and speed-wise, they win hands down. These have a really soft texture, because they're based off a chickpea paste. The next time, I think I'll add more cheese, because as it fries, the cheese creates a crunchy crust as it melts onto the pan. And that has to be one of my favorite comfort tastes of all time...
So there you go. Recipe number one for a wallet-friendly lunch as you watch your stocks crater. Go ahead. Indulge.
In pretty much everything, from shoes to handbags to unlined notebooks.
But it is in the culinary realm, being more affordable for my wallet, that I actually get to indulge those expensive tastes. Little things can make such a difference: a hunk of real cheddar cheese (imported from England) or a wedge of Pecorino; French butter (makes breakfast luxurious!); real, all-fruit jam; sushi; ah, friends, the list goes on and on.
Gourmet meals are all well and good when they don't put a pinch on one's budget, but with the dollar fluctuating like a teenager's emotional state and future prospects hovering on grim, I've been paring back my little treats. Now is a good a time as any to figure out what to do with all those dried beans sitting in my freezer.
So today's recipe is thanks to a bit of forward thinking on my part. I actually SOAKED chickpeas the other day, which makes cooking them up a breeze, just about 15 minutes in the pressure cooker. I mashed the cooked beans up with some garlic, salt and olive oil before remembering that I don't really like hummus all that much. Soooo...experimentation time! I added some pepper, oregano, and cumin, along with shredded carrot, zucchini and cheese (Parmesan and some generic white cheese) and a handful of cracker crumbs. It tasted pretty decent by that point, so I patted them into rough burger shapes and pan-fried in olive oil.
Now, I know. Veggie burgers have nothing on real burgers. But price, health and speed-wise, they win hands down. These have a really soft texture, because they're based off a chickpea paste. The next time, I think I'll add more cheese, because as it fries, the cheese creates a crunchy crust as it melts onto the pan. And that has to be one of my favorite comfort tastes of all time...
So there you go. Recipe number one for a wallet-friendly lunch as you watch your stocks crater. Go ahead. Indulge.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Popularity Contest
I was a geek growing up, with plenty of social awkwardness stemming from the fact that I was never allowed to listen to New Kids on the Block, perm my hair, or have my ears pierced so that I could wear gigantic dangly neon stars like all the cool girls did...
And then there was that height thing...and my kitchen-scissor cut bangs...and the big glasses...and the braces...
(I destroyed most of the photos. Just imagine, okay? No need to require physical proof of my gangliness...)
So as someone who held her own but was always kind of on the outside of the social circles, it's kind of funny to be sort of popular now. It would have been much more valuable to me in high school, I can tell you that!
Tonight, kind of out of the blue, three different people with whom I have a casual relationship (i.e. I see them in the hallways at grad school) sought me out with invites...some drinks after class, a night out with the girls, a big Brazilian BBQ with more meat than I can adequately describe in a blog posting! And a random guy in an expensive green t-shirt chatted with me on the metro and invited me out to lunch one of these days...
And I think to myself...
What happened?
Was it Brazil? Or is it just the self-confidence that comes with being within sneezing distance of the big 30???
And then there was that height thing...and my kitchen-scissor cut bangs...and the big glasses...and the braces...
(I destroyed most of the photos. Just imagine, okay? No need to require physical proof of my gangliness...)
So as someone who held her own but was always kind of on the outside of the social circles, it's kind of funny to be sort of popular now. It would have been much more valuable to me in high school, I can tell you that!
Tonight, kind of out of the blue, three different people with whom I have a casual relationship (i.e. I see them in the hallways at grad school) sought me out with invites...some drinks after class, a night out with the girls, a big Brazilian BBQ with more meat than I can adequately describe in a blog posting! And a random guy in an expensive green t-shirt chatted with me on the metro and invited me out to lunch one of these days...
And I think to myself...
What happened?
Was it Brazil? Or is it just the self-confidence that comes with being within sneezing distance of the big 30???
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Glenda
My father would be so proud.
Last night was class number two with the eccentric economics professor, who has now named me Glenda and attributes my intelligence to milk.
-It's the milk they drink in the United States, people. It's all fortified...vitamins...hormones. All in the milk! There's nothing we can do about it!
We were learning about expansion of demand and all that jazz, but hadn't come around to talking about elasticity. She used a case study and asked the class if it was an example o A (expansão de demanda) or B (redução de demanda). The rest of the class batted around these two possibilities. I decided to speak up (and braved my way through a bright-red face as I became the center of attention) and pointed out that the answer was neither A nor B. It wasn't a question of expansion or retraction, because the price had been altered.
She allowed the class to tease me, for not choosing the obvious answer. I think this woman enjoys keeping her students a bit uncomfortable...
Of course, I was right. And, apparently, the first student to correctly answer the question since she's been teaching. That's kind of sad...
(Not that I would attribute this directly to that economics class back in 8th grade. My 13 year old self is still peeved! Quite frankly, all I remember is that I hated that little blue book and the pages smelled bad. Or maybe it was the words macro and microeconomics that did me in from page one!)
So now I have a new reputation as the "smart one." I think I'll start a milk import business...and avoid group projects like the plague!
Last night was class number two with the eccentric economics professor, who has now named me Glenda and attributes my intelligence to milk.
-It's the milk they drink in the United States, people. It's all fortified...vitamins...hormones. All in the milk! There's nothing we can do about it!
We were learning about expansion of demand and all that jazz, but hadn't come around to talking about elasticity. She used a case study and asked the class if it was an example o A (expansão de demanda) or B (redução de demanda). The rest of the class batted around these two possibilities. I decided to speak up (and braved my way through a bright-red face as I became the center of attention) and pointed out that the answer was neither A nor B. It wasn't a question of expansion or retraction, because the price had been altered.
She allowed the class to tease me, for not choosing the obvious answer. I think this woman enjoys keeping her students a bit uncomfortable...
Of course, I was right. And, apparently, the first student to correctly answer the question since she's been teaching. That's kind of sad...
(Not that I would attribute this directly to that economics class back in 8th grade. My 13 year old self is still peeved! Quite frankly, all I remember is that I hated that little blue book and the pages smelled bad. Or maybe it was the words macro and microeconomics that did me in from page one!)
So now I have a new reputation as the "smart one." I think I'll start a milk import business...and avoid group projects like the plague!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Oops
Let me clarify.
There are lots of comments on that article.
I was kind of thinking more along the lines of whether someone prominent who holds such beliefs about female roles and positions would be willing to discuss the rational connection between such beliefs and support for a female vice-president in a similar public forum.
Tha's all. But the commenters are kind of interesting...
There are lots of comments on that article.
I was kind of thinking more along the lines of whether someone prominent who holds such beliefs about female roles and positions would be willing to discuss the rational connection between such beliefs and support for a female vice-president in a similar public forum.
Tha's all. But the commenters are kind of interesting...
Women, Authority and God's Plan...in the White House?
Slactivist sent me to this article today. The insight and gentle force with which he asks these probing questions is the work of a master. What remains to be seen is if anyone, anyone, has the intestinal fortitude to actually answer him in a public forum.
My guess is no.
(It looks like I'm getting political again...there must be something in the air...)
My guess is no.
(It looks like I'm getting political again...there must be something in the air...)
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I paid attention
The streets, last night, were cold and wet. And so, while we did get our weekly exercise in walking in a huge circle around the Lapa area of town, we eventually gave up (to my great delight) attempting to find friends on the streets and went to visit friends who have, to some degree, left the streets.
They’re taking up residence in an old apartment building just a few minutes away from the Lapa arches. It used to be a nice place, in its day, two apartments to a floor with an elevator in between. The elevator is no more, as is the wiring, water and sewage and pretty much anything else that could have been salvaged (or savaged) and sold. This gives the building your typical haunted house appearance: peeling paint, trash and construction rubble littering the floors, the strong smell of human waste and cats, bare wires running helter-skelter along the walls and ceilings. Some of the floors are more lit than others. But our friends live on the 7th floor, which means quite a lot of stairwell hiking. And explaining to do. At the door, a five or six year old kid seemed to be playing doorman:
-Who are you going to see? Huh? Huh? Liete, Liza, Luana?
And when we came back down, over an hour and a half later, he was still there.
-You get to see your friend Looloo? Good.
It’s sketchy, for sure. But the overall construction of the place seems to be pretty sturdy. There are no cracks, for example, in the concrete, the stairs are solid and even though the floors are a maze of literally subdivided apartments, it is one of the nicest squatter settlements I’ve seen. Each apartment has been divided up into four or five smaller ones, which probably hold families of six or more people. Especially when you account for the street kids who were invited to spend the night.
We showed up as Francisca was sweeping the floor and Gisele was preparing dinner. Another friend was bringing up water in a 10 gallon bucket, then putting it cup by cup into a drinking water container. (Please remember, there is no elevator nor water. She lugged this from somewhere on the street up seven flights of stairs!) The beans were on the “stove,” an old can filled with alcohol that sat atop two upturned bricks. It was going briskly and, quite frankly, was probably just about as safe as having a propane tank in your house like most of the rest of us. We played with the babies. One, with the face of a fat man in his 50’s, the other, a skinny little thing with a mop of curly hair and a diaper so full that it dripped all over my jeans. But was thankfully unstinky. I thought about changing him, but there was no water.
We watched Brazilian Idols on their scratchy television set, sat on the hand-me-down couch and talked about the “good old days” when we used to visit them on the streets…
Rodolfo is frustrated because he’d work, really he would, if he could just find something that he liked to do. We laughed. Existential problems, my friend. Work sucks. You just have to do it, regardless of whether you like it or not! I think he might have a hard time finding something he’s going to like doing, what with the unfinished elementary education and prison time behind him. But that isn’t an excuse.
Francisca wants us to bring out the coloring pages, to sing some. She preens as the house fills with friends and we sing church songs, as requested. Jac, our newest staff member, tells the Bible story, a modern rewording of Psalm 121. Even though there’s quite a bit of discussion going on under her story, the days “earnings” being divided up (R$26), when the time comes for prayer, everyone asks for something that ties into the psalm that was just read.
We slipped down the dark stairs to the street, laughing at the men behind us as they talk about us in loud voices.
Friend number one tries to get our attention in quasi-English:
-You friend my shithead be good?
Friend number two:
-Hey you idot, they’re not gringos, they’re Brazilians!
I think we should do this more often.
They’re taking up residence in an old apartment building just a few minutes away from the Lapa arches. It used to be a nice place, in its day, two apartments to a floor with an elevator in between. The elevator is no more, as is the wiring, water and sewage and pretty much anything else that could have been salvaged (or savaged) and sold. This gives the building your typical haunted house appearance: peeling paint, trash and construction rubble littering the floors, the strong smell of human waste and cats, bare wires running helter-skelter along the walls and ceilings. Some of the floors are more lit than others. But our friends live on the 7th floor, which means quite a lot of stairwell hiking. And explaining to do. At the door, a five or six year old kid seemed to be playing doorman:
-Who are you going to see? Huh? Huh? Liete, Liza, Luana?
And when we came back down, over an hour and a half later, he was still there.
-You get to see your friend Looloo? Good.
It’s sketchy, for sure. But the overall construction of the place seems to be pretty sturdy. There are no cracks, for example, in the concrete, the stairs are solid and even though the floors are a maze of literally subdivided apartments, it is one of the nicest squatter settlements I’ve seen. Each apartment has been divided up into four or five smaller ones, which probably hold families of six or more people. Especially when you account for the street kids who were invited to spend the night.
We showed up as Francisca was sweeping the floor and Gisele was preparing dinner. Another friend was bringing up water in a 10 gallon bucket, then putting it cup by cup into a drinking water container. (Please remember, there is no elevator nor water. She lugged this from somewhere on the street up seven flights of stairs!) The beans were on the “stove,” an old can filled with alcohol that sat atop two upturned bricks. It was going briskly and, quite frankly, was probably just about as safe as having a propane tank in your house like most of the rest of us. We played with the babies. One, with the face of a fat man in his 50’s, the other, a skinny little thing with a mop of curly hair and a diaper so full that it dripped all over my jeans. But was thankfully unstinky. I thought about changing him, but there was no water.
We watched Brazilian Idols on their scratchy television set, sat on the hand-me-down couch and talked about the “good old days” when we used to visit them on the streets…
Rodolfo is frustrated because he’d work, really he would, if he could just find something that he liked to do. We laughed. Existential problems, my friend. Work sucks. You just have to do it, regardless of whether you like it or not! I think he might have a hard time finding something he’s going to like doing, what with the unfinished elementary education and prison time behind him. But that isn’t an excuse.
Francisca wants us to bring out the coloring pages, to sing some. She preens as the house fills with friends and we sing church songs, as requested. Jac, our newest staff member, tells the Bible story, a modern rewording of Psalm 121. Even though there’s quite a bit of discussion going on under her story, the days “earnings” being divided up (R$26), when the time comes for prayer, everyone asks for something that ties into the psalm that was just read.
We slipped down the dark stairs to the street, laughing at the men behind us as they talk about us in loud voices.
Friend number one tries to get our attention in quasi-English:
-You friend my shithead be good?
Friend number two:
-Hey you idot, they’re not gringos, they’re Brazilians!
I think we should do this more often.
Not their fault they're out of touch
Brazil has, according to our economics professor, the most concentrated wealth in the world. Followed by Sierra Leone and Burundi. Or Rwanda. I can’t remember now.
She drew a big triangle on the white board and crossed off just the tip of the drawing.
-This is the top 10%. What is the minimum salary that will put a Brazilian in the 10% richest in the country?
A colleague and I responded together R$3000 (per month). I thought it was perhaps a bit high, maybe more around the R$2000 mark. Other classmates scoffed.
-Come on. Three thousand? No way. That’s so low!
(It’s almost twice what I make per month…)
-Fifteen thousand.
-Fifty thousand…
The professor cut off the conversation and drew a line on the other side of the triangle.
-Are you ready to know what it really is? R$ 600.
Shock waves rippled through the classroom. They’re not even sure if someone can live on R$600, not really. You can see it in their eyes.
I thoroughly enjoyed the class, from the professor’s absent minded comments to her sitting cross-legged on the chair, unabashedly explaining that we will have to have a smoke break, at the very least, because she loves her Marlboros. She tells us we look like calves in a field, with these big moon eyes. Each student is addressed by their clothing or dominant feature:
-Pistachio…Black coat there…Blondie next to Blue Shirt...hey Glasses, what do you think?
To me:
-So what's your name? Jina, Jeny, Dena? You're Italian?
-No, American.
-Really? You sure?
There is laughter...
For the rest of the class, I become the Phd. in Cat Whiskers. Don't ask. I couldn't explain it if I tried!
Sorry, Dad, but I have a feeling this economics course is going to be substantially more interesting than the one you made me take when I was 13. Just have this instinct...
She drew a big triangle on the white board and crossed off just the tip of the drawing.
-This is the top 10%. What is the minimum salary that will put a Brazilian in the 10% richest in the country?
A colleague and I responded together R$3000 (per month). I thought it was perhaps a bit high, maybe more around the R$2000 mark. Other classmates scoffed.
-Come on. Three thousand? No way. That’s so low!
(It’s almost twice what I make per month…)
-Fifteen thousand.
-Fifty thousand…
The professor cut off the conversation and drew a line on the other side of the triangle.
-Are you ready to know what it really is? R$ 600.
Shock waves rippled through the classroom. They’re not even sure if someone can live on R$600, not really. You can see it in their eyes.
I thoroughly enjoyed the class, from the professor’s absent minded comments to her sitting cross-legged on the chair, unabashedly explaining that we will have to have a smoke break, at the very least, because she loves her Marlboros. She tells us we look like calves in a field, with these big moon eyes. Each student is addressed by their clothing or dominant feature:
-Pistachio…Black coat there…Blondie next to Blue Shirt...hey Glasses, what do you think?
To me:
-So what's your name? Jina, Jeny, Dena? You're Italian?
-No, American.
-Really? You sure?
There is laughter...
For the rest of the class, I become the Phd. in Cat Whiskers. Don't ask. I couldn't explain it if I tried!
Sorry, Dad, but I have a feeling this economics course is going to be substantially more interesting than the one you made me take when I was 13. Just have this instinct...
Monday, September 15, 2008
It is a new week
The weather is having a last fling at pretending to be winter before spring shows it's sweaty little head. Have I mentioned that for most of my life, my favorite colors were grey and black? I love these overcast days! I just hope it doesn't decide to pour down rain when we go out to the streets today.
I really dislike rainy days on the streets; the second-hand smoke and fumes are always worse, and it is impossible to stay clean for my graduate class afterward. Then no one wants to sit next to me because I smell like marijuana and stale urine. Pleasant.
So let's hope it doesn't rain...and when I get back tonight, hopefully there will be a story or two from our ministry time. I'll pay attention, I promise!
I really dislike rainy days on the streets; the second-hand smoke and fumes are always worse, and it is impossible to stay clean for my graduate class afterward. Then no one wants to sit next to me because I smell like marijuana and stale urine. Pleasant.
So let's hope it doesn't rain...and when I get back tonight, hopefully there will be a story or two from our ministry time. I'll pay attention, I promise!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Burnt
I need a kitchen timer.
Not only did the phone call disrupt my afternoon, it also distracted me from the almonds and walnuts that I was toasting for granola.
Grr.
They're a toasty black and unusable. Grr. Frustrates the heck out of me...
Not only did the phone call disrupt my afternoon, it also distracted me from the almonds and walnuts that I was toasting for granola.
Grr.
They're a toasty black and unusable. Grr. Frustrates the heck out of me...
Friday, September 12, 2008
Political Ranting
It’s rare that I comment about political matters on my blog, for a number of reasons that are best discussed over a cup of coffee and a long, long weekend. But I couldn’t help myself today. Even though my internet connection is too slow to download the campaign smut, I mean, ads that are coming out of the US, I can get commentary and the text with a quick Google search. And so, while doing a little research this afternoon, I came across this offensive little gem.
"On a campaign conference call last night, Rep. Marsha Blackburn (Tenn.) lumped together Obama's reference to a female reporter as ‘sweetie’ last May, his decision not to choose Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton (N.Y.) or Kansas Gov. Kathleen Sebelius as his running mate, and his use of the saying ‘lipstick on a pig’ in comments Tuesday to denounce what they call a pattern of sexism."”
Contrary to some people's belief, not choosing a woman as your running mate isn’t sexist. Choosing a woman as your running mate doesn't make you NOT sexist. (But I am sooooooo not going there!) How does one show prejudice in the gender realm of vice-presidental politics? By not contemplating a woman as your running mate. Since the general public wasn't privy to the lists of potential candidates, I'm guessing neither was Ms. Blackburn. Hard to say, then, what the Obama contemplated or not.
The logic used in this comment is nothing more than intimidation: if you don’t choose person X, then you are (pick your poison: racist, sexist, homophobic, heterophobic, etc…). The real sexism is in the statement made by Ms. Blackburn. Obama needed to choose a woman to prove that he wasn’t sexist? That’s like having a token black friend. It proves nothing, other than that one is willing to use others to look good. And that, my friends, is worse than simply sexist.
"On a campaign conference call last night, Rep. Marsha Blackburn (Tenn.) lumped together Obama's reference to a female reporter as ‘sweetie’ last May, his decision not to choose Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton (N.Y.) or Kansas Gov. Kathleen Sebelius as his running mate, and his use of the saying ‘lipstick on a pig’ in comments Tuesday to denounce what they call a pattern of sexism."”
Contrary to some people's belief, not choosing a woman as your running mate isn’t sexist. Choosing a woman as your running mate doesn't make you NOT sexist. (But I am sooooooo not going there!) How does one show prejudice in the gender realm of vice-presidental politics? By not contemplating a woman as your running mate. Since the general public wasn't privy to the lists of potential candidates, I'm guessing neither was Ms. Blackburn. Hard to say, then, what the Obama contemplated or not.
The logic used in this comment is nothing more than intimidation: if you don’t choose person X, then you are (pick your poison: racist, sexist, homophobic, heterophobic, etc…). The real sexism is in the statement made by Ms. Blackburn. Obama needed to choose a woman to prove that he wasn’t sexist? That’s like having a token black friend. It proves nothing, other than that one is willing to use others to look good. And that, my friends, is worse than simply sexist.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A quick note
After three days of seclusion, I can say with a good degree of certainty that the strep-throat-from-Hades has been beaten down by my favorite antibiotic. This thing not only knocks out my killer upper-and-lower respiratory infections, but is, according to the multi-folded paper tucked inside, also extremely effective against: a variety of gram positive, gram negative aerobic bacterias and anaerobic bacterias, the hideous fungal kind of pneumonia, Chlamydia pneumoniae (is this what I think it is?), a variety of plasma things...and, oh, yeah. Gonhorrhea. Talk about multi-tasking.
(I'm running out the door--today is my day at the after-school program, but first I have to stop by the doctor's. Need to pay for my consultation the other day...I didn't have any money earlier in the week; since I was in no shape to go running around looking for an ATM, my doctor just told me to come back later this week and drop off the money. Gotta love small-towns! Or, okay, small neighborhoods!)
(I'm running out the door--today is my day at the after-school program, but first I have to stop by the doctor's. Need to pay for my consultation the other day...I didn't have any money earlier in the week; since I was in no shape to go running around looking for an ATM, my doctor just told me to come back later this week and drop off the money. Gotta love small-towns! Or, okay, small neighborhoods!)
Monday, September 08, 2008
On Nutrition
Every bite and every swallow are met with groans. Real groans, animal in pain groans. After all, anything touching my throat is like muriatic acid. Chewing is a disaster, as my jaw refuses to open or close without sharp, shooting pains that make me wonder if I'm not getting an arthritis flare in that joint. Not to mention the swollen uvula that is CHOKING ME EVERY TIME I SWALLOW. This is ranking up with one of the worst weeks of my life.
Am I feeding myself enough? I don't know. Let's take an inventory:
Breakfast: a small cup of strawberry yogurt and two poached eggs with two slices of toast
Snack: another small cup of strawberry yogurt, a squirt of honey directly into my mouth
Lunch: six bites of rice, beans and chicken a friend brought over, cold, and too salty
Snack: three spoonfuls of strawberry jello
Snack: a 41 calorie soup packet stuffed liberally with crackers that melted into soft goo at the bottom
Tea time: a big mug of vanilla-roiboos with milk and honey
Dinner: one grilled cheese sandwich with garlic (garlic is supposed to be an anti-inflammatory, anti-bacterial agent) smushed into a bowl of tomato/ginger soup that I didn't finish because it hurt too much
And then there was the tea my sweet landlord's wife made me gargle. Green pomagranate. Tastes like battery acid on holiday. At least it's just a gargle, because I almost threw up after the second try...
I'm guessing that I'll be a few pounds lighter before this is all over...
Am I feeding myself enough? I don't know. Let's take an inventory:
Breakfast: a small cup of strawberry yogurt and two poached eggs with two slices of toast
Snack: another small cup of strawberry yogurt, a squirt of honey directly into my mouth
Lunch: six bites of rice, beans and chicken a friend brought over, cold, and too salty
Snack: three spoonfuls of strawberry jello
Snack: a 41 calorie soup packet stuffed liberally with crackers that melted into soft goo at the bottom
Tea time: a big mug of vanilla-roiboos with milk and honey
Dinner: one grilled cheese sandwich with garlic (garlic is supposed to be an anti-inflammatory, anti-bacterial agent) smushed into a bowl of tomato/ginger soup that I didn't finish because it hurt too much
And then there was the tea my sweet landlord's wife made me gargle. Green pomagranate. Tastes like battery acid on holiday. At least it's just a gargle, because I almost threw up after the second try...
I'm guessing that I'll be a few pounds lighter before this is all over...
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Such a Pleasant Weekend
This is what happens after a typical Thursday, apparently. You are fine on Friday. And Saturday too, where you go out to dinner with a friend and eat too much. Then you go to a house church meeting, where stepping in the door you suddenly feel tired. Like you should lay down on the floor. Or maybe on the sofa. But definitely be in a horizontal position. And suddenly, you're thinking that the limeade you had with dinner maybe wasn't a good idea, because it was too acidic or something and is really bothering your throat. Come to think of it, it's not just your throat that's on fire. Since when have eardrums been so sensitive? And why does it feel so very, very cold in this room? Does anyone have a blanket? Really. This is excruciating, trying to translate while shivering and feeling like someone took a rasp to the inner lining of your esophagus.
No one else seems to notice your fading state, but God answers prayers and you get a ride home. Nice. That metro ride would have been too cold for comfort...but what's this? The thermometer is registering fever? Fever? Fever? And suddenly there is a mad race to the bathroom...while visions of a little boy from the after school project dance in your head. Didn't he complain of something? Sore throat? And when you let him put his head in your lap while you waited for the gunfire to cease, didn't he feel too warm for normal? Did you perhaps not wash your hands well enough after they all went home? Dang children's infernal diseases!
Two hours of sleep is SO not sufficient to beat down a virus, and napping during the day is out, thanks to a sun-facing apartment that gets quite toasty by 10:00 am. What to do? Drink lots of tea, beg dinner off a friend and hope you can keep it down, dig out the pharmacy under the bed and pump Vitamin C into cells via a miracle drug that comes in little tablets. Hope for the best.
No one else seems to notice your fading state, but God answers prayers and you get a ride home. Nice. That metro ride would have been too cold for comfort...but what's this? The thermometer is registering fever? Fever? Fever? And suddenly there is a mad race to the bathroom...while visions of a little boy from the after school project dance in your head. Didn't he complain of something? Sore throat? And when you let him put his head in your lap while you waited for the gunfire to cease, didn't he feel too warm for normal? Did you perhaps not wash your hands well enough after they all went home? Dang children's infernal diseases!
Two hours of sleep is SO not sufficient to beat down a virus, and napping during the day is out, thanks to a sun-facing apartment that gets quite toasty by 10:00 am. What to do? Drink lots of tea, beg dinner off a friend and hope you can keep it down, dig out the pharmacy under the bed and pump Vitamin C into cells via a miracle drug that comes in little tablets. Hope for the best.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Typical Thursday
All I could think about today was food, as a way of distracting myself from the heat. Skipping lunch didn't help much and I was very, very ready to go home, get some groceries, make some kind of high-sodium noodle dish that will send me grinning to an early death.
True to my luck, just as we are closing up the after-school project for the day, the punks and the cops decided to play war games. So the kids raced back up the stairs to sit with us in the kitchen until the danger passed. They're cute, grubby kids and I didn't have to yell at them too much today, other than to order one kid to do barbell lifts with the log he was pretending was a machine gun (he wimped out at 30) and give a stern talking-to to the disturbed 5 year old who tells people to "take it up your a$#" and threw a container of dirt on his older brother. He's a charmer, he is.
When we finally determined it safe to head home, the kids skipped down the road, gleefully ignoring directives to go directly home, do not pass Go!, do not collect any prizes. They climbed dirt mountains, ignored the drug punks standing in a well-armed cluster 20 feet away, and cavorted slowly down the street. You'd think their parents would be more worried about them.
Now that my stomach is satisfied with an attempt at yakisoba, my new favorite fast-food dish, I think it is time to take a long shower. Kill off those lice, remove the black lines of dirt that are ringing my feet, feel clean again.
True to my luck, just as we are closing up the after-school project for the day, the punks and the cops decided to play war games. So the kids raced back up the stairs to sit with us in the kitchen until the danger passed. They're cute, grubby kids and I didn't have to yell at them too much today, other than to order one kid to do barbell lifts with the log he was pretending was a machine gun (he wimped out at 30) and give a stern talking-to to the disturbed 5 year old who tells people to "take it up your a$#" and threw a container of dirt on his older brother. He's a charmer, he is.
When we finally determined it safe to head home, the kids skipped down the road, gleefully ignoring directives to go directly home, do not pass Go!, do not collect any prizes. They climbed dirt mountains, ignored the drug punks standing in a well-armed cluster 20 feet away, and cavorted slowly down the street. You'd think their parents would be more worried about them.
Now that my stomach is satisfied with an attempt at yakisoba, my new favorite fast-food dish, I think it is time to take a long shower. Kill off those lice, remove the black lines of dirt that are ringing my feet, feel clean again.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Before bed
I am on Messenger, finishing up a group project via the wonderful world of internet chat windows. How else could we be determining these sales figures from the comfort of our own homes and not some freezing study room in the bowels of our college?
It's been a long day. Up to do some work on the computer, then a lunch date with a lady from church, then going to the children's home for tutoring, story reading, hair pulling and the like. Then it was off to run errands before my Bible study group this evening. I got home at 11:00 pm to work on the aforementioned project, which is due tomorrow. We are finishing up now, at 12:43 am. I have also been interspersing this with non-school related conversations and trying frantically to read the 300+ page book we're doing for our book club. I made a date to go to the opera (rather, God hooked me up again!) and have given myself a fantastic crick in my neck.
Dinner was yakisoba, an addictive Chinese take-out dish that is probably killing my innards as we speak. But oh-so-yummy! The waiter was quite confused by me; I guess not too many people follow that kind of meal with a coffee. But I needed a pick-me-up or there was no getting through the rest of the night...
While I was in the little restaurant, a girl of about 14 walked up to my table. She was wearing hot pants, a tiny tank top and some variation of a sweatshirt tied around her shoulders. In her hand was a pastel, a fried meat pocket in which she was liberally squirting ketchup. "Wanna buy me a sugarcane juice?" (That's what people drink with the artery clogging pasteis.) I looked up from my book and thought about my dinner money. There wasn't much of it. Uh...nope. Sorry.
But the people at the next table paid for one for her, and I saw this girl sit there on the stool, carefully, slowly eating this snack that most people down in half a minute. We ended up leaving the restaurant at the same time, and I gave her a smile. "Spare some change?" Yes. That I can do...and I handed her the fifty cents that remained after I'd paid my bill. Usually, I don't give money to people on the street. But there was something about the deliberate way she enjoyed that little meal that touched me. Somehow, I can't see this girl taking that fifty cents to go out and buy drugs. Anyone who appreciates a snack with such leisurely gusto can't possibly be strung out on anything but life...
So we said, both of us, "Good night! God bless you...go with God..." and went out into the darkness.
It's been a long day. Up to do some work on the computer, then a lunch date with a lady from church, then going to the children's home for tutoring, story reading, hair pulling and the like. Then it was off to run errands before my Bible study group this evening. I got home at 11:00 pm to work on the aforementioned project, which is due tomorrow. We are finishing up now, at 12:43 am. I have also been interspersing this with non-school related conversations and trying frantically to read the 300+ page book we're doing for our book club. I made a date to go to the opera (rather, God hooked me up again!) and have given myself a fantastic crick in my neck.
Dinner was yakisoba, an addictive Chinese take-out dish that is probably killing my innards as we speak. But oh-so-yummy! The waiter was quite confused by me; I guess not too many people follow that kind of meal with a coffee. But I needed a pick-me-up or there was no getting through the rest of the night...
While I was in the little restaurant, a girl of about 14 walked up to my table. She was wearing hot pants, a tiny tank top and some variation of a sweatshirt tied around her shoulders. In her hand was a pastel, a fried meat pocket in which she was liberally squirting ketchup. "Wanna buy me a sugarcane juice?" (That's what people drink with the artery clogging pasteis.) I looked up from my book and thought about my dinner money. There wasn't much of it. Uh...nope. Sorry.
But the people at the next table paid for one for her, and I saw this girl sit there on the stool, carefully, slowly eating this snack that most people down in half a minute. We ended up leaving the restaurant at the same time, and I gave her a smile. "Spare some change?" Yes. That I can do...and I handed her the fifty cents that remained after I'd paid my bill. Usually, I don't give money to people on the street. But there was something about the deliberate way she enjoyed that little meal that touched me. Somehow, I can't see this girl taking that fifty cents to go out and buy drugs. Anyone who appreciates a snack with such leisurely gusto can't possibly be strung out on anything but life...
So we said, both of us, "Good night! God bless you...go with God..." and went out into the darkness.
Monday, September 01, 2008
You must go here.
This has consumed my morning.
That and my early morning writing, and surprising non-hatred of the newspaper delivery man who rang my doorbell 3 times at 6:21 in the morning, nor my ambivalent feelings about throwing the last shovel of dirt on the graves of two friendships last night. I slept like a baby (thank you Concho y Toro, Amy and Carol) and my dreams were much less harried and violent. There was something about a boat and dirty orange water and losing my laptop and missing my dad...but no dismemberment or people nailed to trees...
(I think my subconscious is telling me to write horror movie screenplays. But I don't BELIEVE in terror films. I just DREAM them.)
But THIS blog (a suggestion from Jen) has taken all of my free morning and then some. She is funny. She is hilarious. I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THIS WOMAN'S WRITING!
p.s. ...just to be masochistic, I am reading the love story. Every freaking chapter. I have downed two cups of my favorite Earl Grey tea and eaten some cheese. (It's a fasting day but I have to eat something to keep down my meds...) I have not showered. I have not swept my floors or written thank you letters or responded to emails. Pioneer Woman, what are you DOING to me???
That and my early morning writing, and surprising non-hatred of the newspaper delivery man who rang my doorbell 3 times at 6:21 in the morning, nor my ambivalent feelings about throwing the last shovel of dirt on the graves of two friendships last night. I slept like a baby (thank you Concho y Toro, Amy and Carol) and my dreams were much less harried and violent. There was something about a boat and dirty orange water and losing my laptop and missing my dad...but no dismemberment or people nailed to trees...
(I think my subconscious is telling me to write horror movie screenplays. But I don't BELIEVE in terror films. I just DREAM them.)
But THIS blog (a suggestion from Jen) has taken all of my free morning and then some. She is funny. She is hilarious. I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THIS WOMAN'S WRITING!
p.s. ...just to be masochistic, I am reading the love story. Every freaking chapter. I have downed two cups of my favorite Earl Grey tea and eaten some cheese. (It's a fasting day but I have to eat something to keep down my meds...) I have not showered. I have not swept my floors or written thank you letters or responded to emails. Pioneer Woman, what are you DOING to me???
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