This is indeed a true story, it just happened in August. I almost forgot about my self-promise that I would post it by Christmas. And here we are.
A little back-story must be given in order for this story to make sense to the less-informed readers. First, Charter. I went to the Benjamin Classical Charter Public School (B.F.C.C.P.S.) for 5 years, and I miss it dearly. The "Public" part was added in 2005. That building holds more memories of mine than you can shake a stick at, and I think about it every day. Every year it holds a "field day", which is a day near the end of the school year where the 8th graders assist in a variety of activities for the little kids. Also, every year t-shirts (made by the company Graphic Images) are given to the students, with the name of the school, the year, and sometimes an inspiring quote on the back.
Second, youth group. Though I'm pretty sure most of you know what that is, at Dakar Academy they do it a little different. It starts at 7:00, and it's basically a short sermon (1-1.5 hours) given in front of like 30-50 teenagers, and then people just kind of mingle outside until curfew for the dorms. Which is like 9 or something. Middle school is held in the library, and high school goes separately to the auditorium.
Finally, Saturday Market. Basically the mall of Dakar, Saturday Market is comprised of dozens upon dozens of basic little wooden tables. Every Saturday, salesman come out with their various wares (shoes, soccer jerseys, rear view mirrors, etc.), sets up on one of these tables, and sells things (or tries to sell things) all day. The whole of the "market" extends, quite literally, for several miles. The multitudes of salespeople and things to buy are overwhelming, especially so when you are white, because so many people try to sell you things. It's generally a place I avoid, for that reason. Anyways...
I bet you can't see where I'm going with these, but they are relevant, I assure you.
So, here we are at the 3rd week of youth group, near the end of August. Both middle school and high school has been let out, so I'm standing awkwardly alone and Sam is having a light conversation with some acquaintances on the basketball court. All of a sudden, Sam trots over to me with a shocked look on his face. "Will, that girl over there is wearing a Charter shirt!" Now of course, there's no way that could happen, right? The entire student population of B.F.C.C.P.S.'s grades K-8 is about 400 each year. And there's only about 300 in DA's K-12. And since there's about 365 million people in the States, and only 11 million in Senegal...you do the math.
But, I humor him and look over. From where we are, it really just looks like a dark green shirt. Even he agrees he could have been seeing things- its only been a couple weeks since the big move and we both miss home, and the lighting of the court was less than spectacular. We're both a little disappointed, sure, but none of us really expected for it to be a real charter shirt. He walks back to his little circle, and for 15 minutes I can't get the memory of B.F.C.C.P.S. out of my head. "I didn't really get a good look at it," I thought, "maybe I should walk over and check it again." It may even force me to socialize with other human beings.
After a few minutes I do kind of walk past, pretending I have some destination just beyond the wall and the route just happens to pass by the circle of girls where the one with the shirt currently resided. I was stopped in my tracks. On the back, clear as day, was an inspiring quote by Elanor Roosevelt. I practically sprinted to where I could see the front of the shirt, and there in bold white letters was B.F.C.C.S. and the numbers '03. Hardly able to string together enough words to make a sentence, somehow she understood that I was asking if she had gone there and responded "No, I bought it at Saturday market."
Now, I've tried to think how this could have occurred, maybe someone donated it, maybe Graphic Images sent a surplus of shirts to some charity and they trickled down to Africa, then stolen by someone and sold, then somehow that girl chose the charter shirt in the midst of hundreds of other options. There are a myriad of ways this shirt from that school could land in this school, all equally, astonishingly improbable. So I'm going to try to finally stop reasoning it out and let you take this story for what you want.
Merry Christmas!
-Will
"Christmas was on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, upon which the entire kid year revolved."
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
I Like to Move It- Part 1 of 2
Actually, as opposed to what the title tells you, I hate moving. Ironically, not many I know have moved so many times as I have in such a short amount of time. I'm sure people like that exist, I just don't know any.
Since Fall 2007, I've moved:
1. Out of Massachusetts
2. Into Quebec
3. Out of Quebec
3 1/2. Into the apartment
4. Out of apartment
5. Into our new house
And with that cliffhanger of a last post, I figured I should at least outline the mess of a move we had last Thursday.
So, I've finished exams, I've left the school until next year, and I've begun to acclimate to a nice, long winter break. And then I remembered that I have to move tomorrow. First day of break, and I'm getting up early and moving boxes at the crack of 9.
But, I dragged myself out of bed, and there I was at some strange looking "facility" where apparently all of our stuff has been held for 4 months. I think it's a place to house temporary missionaries, but to me it looked more like a spot that some big mob dealing would take place; the boss sitting sipping strawberry daiquiris on his veranda, while a helicopter lands and some scrawny, sleazy guy holds his hat and tie from flying away while stepping out. Anyways, as it turns out our boxes and furniture wasn't all sold away to Skinny Vinny and his gang, it was right there where we left it!
45 minutes after it was supposed to arrive, the moving truck pulled up. It is Africa, so I wasn't expecting much (use the previously-mentioned Formula), but this was pretty bad. It was about a third of the size of the shipping container the stuff got over in, and the floor consisted of wooden sheets over some metal bars. You could see the ground in some places. How I yearned for a nice U-Haul truck. I'll bet you've never yearned for a U-Haul truck.
2 hours later, me, Dad, and a bunch of other people I don't know but who spoke English had said crappy truck jam-packed with 98% of our assorted household items. We then drove to our new house, the occupants of which were to have left by 6:00 a.m. Guess what? They were still there. Frantically running around the house, packing up remaining odds and ends, this was the result of the first misunderstanding of the day. The D's, as I'll call them, since they're name is french and therefore impossible to spell, have some interesting moving habits, if I do say so myself. The vegetable garden in the backyard, which just last week had been flourishing with various plants, edible and otherwise, was completely yanked out and now was a plot of dirt. They took the plants with them. The batteries in the AC remotes were taken. Everything was dirty. The room they promised mom to paint was left unpainted. They sold the TV we bought from them to someone else? I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
However, when they left they left behind some really random crap. They took the time to take all the batteries out of the remotes (apparently half-drained AAA's are a rare form of currency in Senegal), yet they left piles of assorted stuff in pretty much every room. Half of a toy cell phone. A deflated Madagascar mini basketball (as in the movie, not the country.) The top of a broken spray can. Pieces of soccer ball. A watch case? I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
Anyways, I really did like my first look at the house. It had just as much space as the apartment we subletted, but it was more in separate rooms and less in giant, open common areas. If there's such a thing as anti-clostrophobia, and I'm fairly certain there is, I had it in that apartment. It was too open. This place has no such problems. But at this point it was time to take the truck back to get the remaining dregs of furniture left at the mafia headquarters. This is where the "shouting arguement" part of the formula comes in. The moving guy and Dad were talking about going back. I was lying in the hammock and started to hear shouting in French. That marks the second time I've heard Dad argue in French, and it's still just as awesome as when he put down that idiotic clerk in the grocery store and Quebec. Anyways, I think he won, because we didn't have to pay the guy (who was trying to rip us off) any more money.
And finally, we ate a delicious lunch of sammies, canned ravioli, soda and cookies. 3 1/2 days of unpacking later, and here I am, sitting at the laptop on our new patio-made-living-room furniture, chronicling it out. You're welcome. Now you don't even need to use math.
Oh, and I planned on doing this earlier, but I kept forgetting. Too bad. I might be adding to this list when I think of a good one.
DA students are like Moms because:
11. They think I should get a haircut
12. They think the music I'm listening to should be turned down
-Will
P.S. Happy 50th post, everyone!
"There are many ways to kill a zombie, but the most satisfying way is to stab it in the eye with a wooden stick."
Since Fall 2007, I've moved:
1. Out of Massachusetts
2. Into Quebec
3. Out of Quebec
3 1/2. Into the apartment
4. Out of apartment
5. Into our new house
And with that cliffhanger of a last post, I figured I should at least outline the mess of a move we had last Thursday.
So, I've finished exams, I've left the school until next year, and I've begun to acclimate to a nice, long winter break. And then I remembered that I have to move tomorrow. First day of break, and I'm getting up early and moving boxes at the crack of 9.
But, I dragged myself out of bed, and there I was at some strange looking "facility" where apparently all of our stuff has been held for 4 months. I think it's a place to house temporary missionaries, but to me it looked more like a spot that some big mob dealing would take place; the boss sitting sipping strawberry daiquiris on his veranda, while a helicopter lands and some scrawny, sleazy guy holds his hat and tie from flying away while stepping out. Anyways, as it turns out our boxes and furniture wasn't all sold away to Skinny Vinny and his gang, it was right there where we left it!
45 minutes after it was supposed to arrive, the moving truck pulled up. It is Africa, so I wasn't expecting much (use the previously-mentioned Formula), but this was pretty bad. It was about a third of the size of the shipping container the stuff got over in, and the floor consisted of wooden sheets over some metal bars. You could see the ground in some places. How I yearned for a nice U-Haul truck. I'll bet you've never yearned for a U-Haul truck.
2 hours later, me, Dad, and a bunch of other people I don't know but who spoke English had said crappy truck jam-packed with 98% of our assorted household items. We then drove to our new house, the occupants of which were to have left by 6:00 a.m. Guess what? They were still there. Frantically running around the house, packing up remaining odds and ends, this was the result of the first misunderstanding of the day. The D's, as I'll call them, since they're name is french and therefore impossible to spell, have some interesting moving habits, if I do say so myself. The vegetable garden in the backyard, which just last week had been flourishing with various plants, edible and otherwise, was completely yanked out and now was a plot of dirt. They took the plants with them. The batteries in the AC remotes were taken. Everything was dirty. The room they promised mom to paint was left unpainted. They sold the TV we bought from them to someone else? I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
However, when they left they left behind some really random crap. They took the time to take all the batteries out of the remotes (apparently half-drained AAA's are a rare form of currency in Senegal), yet they left piles of assorted stuff in pretty much every room. Half of a toy cell phone. A deflated Madagascar mini basketball (as in the movie, not the country.) The top of a broken spray can. Pieces of soccer ball. A watch case? I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
Anyways, I really did like my first look at the house. It had just as much space as the apartment we subletted, but it was more in separate rooms and less in giant, open common areas. If there's such a thing as anti-clostrophobia, and I'm fairly certain there is, I had it in that apartment. It was too open. This place has no such problems. But at this point it was time to take the truck back to get the remaining dregs of furniture left at the mafia headquarters. This is where the "shouting arguement" part of the formula comes in. The moving guy and Dad were talking about going back. I was lying in the hammock and started to hear shouting in French. That marks the second time I've heard Dad argue in French, and it's still just as awesome as when he put down that idiotic clerk in the grocery store and Quebec. Anyways, I think he won, because we didn't have to pay the guy (who was trying to rip us off) any more money.
And finally, we ate a delicious lunch of sammies, canned ravioli, soda and cookies. 3 1/2 days of unpacking later, and here I am, sitting at the laptop on our new patio-made-living-room furniture, chronicling it out. You're welcome. Now you don't even need to use math.
Oh, and I planned on doing this earlier, but I kept forgetting. Too bad. I might be adding to this list when I think of a good one.
DA students are like Moms because:
11. They think I should get a haircut
12. They think the music I'm listening to should be turned down
-Will
P.S. Happy 50th post, everyone!
"There are many ways to kill a zombie, but the most satisfying way is to stab it in the eye with a wooden stick."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Math is a Wonderful Thing
Even though my Math exam was on Tuesday, and my brain began its usual during-break atrophy the minute after I finished that last exam, while helping with the move today, I thought of a good formula (No, this doesn't happen a lot.)
Will's African Experience Formula:
(A1 + D) + N x .5r + H x .4S/H = A2
Which translates to:
(American situation + smell of dung) + Number of People in Situation x .5 Attempted/Succeeded ripoffs + Number of hours x .4 Shouting Arguments/hour = African situation
Now use that, and you tell me just how our move went today. If you're good, Santa will send you pictures of the new place. At some point.
-Will
"An intervention...it's sort of hard to describe but really it's a coming together- it's a surprise party! For people who are...who have addictions. And you get in their face and you scream at them and make them feel really badly about themselves. And then they stop."
Will's African Experience Formula:
(A1 + D) + N x .5r + H x .4S/H = A2
Which translates to:
(American situation + smell of dung) + Number of People in Situation x .5 Attempted/Succeeded ripoffs + Number of hours x .4 Shouting Arguments/hour = African situation
Now use that, and you tell me just how our move went today. If you're good, Santa will send you pictures of the new place. At some point.
-Will
"An intervention...it's sort of hard to describe but really it's a coming together- it's a surprise party! For people who are...who have addictions. And you get in their face and you scream at them and make them feel really badly about themselves. And then they stop."
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Cold Front Passes Through Dakar- Temperature Dipped to 70 Degrees!
You know, I think, in some ways, blogging is the new video games. I always do it when I have something more important to do, like study, or rest, or use the bathroom. So again, I could replenish energy in the form of sleeping, so that I can aptly move boxes without falling asleep, or I could replenish energy by blogging, which doesn’t actually replenish energy at all.
This week was exams. I only had 4, but that’s still kind of a lot. It’s much more than 2, for instance. I was pretty well prepared for all of them, but I’ve always kind of hated exams. Some of the dislike comes from the fact that they’re big tests and there’s some pressure in taking them, sure, but another big factor is that they totally ruin pre-break goodbyes. You can say goodbye on the Friday before, but you know you’ll see ‘em at least one other time. But then, during exams, you don’t know when you’ll see them last, so you might get lucky and time it perfect, or you might miss a goodbye altogether, or you might say it early and then every time you see them after that is really awkward, and the more meaningful the goodbye, the more awkward it is. It’s sort of like if you have a dog, and it dies, and you’re very sad. But then it comes back to life, but you know it’s going to die again really soon, so you don’t want to get attached to it again. Because it will die.
Of course, this year I didn’t have to worry about that, because I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, and certainly no one said goodbye to me. After the last exam, I just kind of unceremoniously walked off campus and down the sandy road to home. There was no big hugs or presents, no swapping of e-mails to stay in touch for the whole 2 weeks we won’t see each other, none of that. I just walked away. While walking home, I remembered where I was at this time last year. I cleaned out my locker, put on 3 extra layers of clothing, snow gloves, a Pink Floyd ski cap, and said goodbye to a few friends. There was snow on the ground, and I was probably ecstatic about the fact that I was going home for a whole week, planning to see not only my extended family but my friends as well. This break? Well, we’re moving tomorrow, there sure as heck isn’t any snow, and I have no idea what I will occupy my 3 weeks of idle time with. Half of the people at school are leaving anyways, migrating from the dorms to various West African countries. The other half is staying here, and they usually have relatives, mostly siblings, coming to their house and taking up they’re time.
Although, I'm not friends with either half, so I guess it's a moot point.
-Will
"I get by with a little help from my friends."
P.S. After that last exam, I walked home, arrived, got a call from my teacher, walked back finished the last page (which I had evidently forgotten) and walked back. It was a blast.
P.S. S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!
This week was exams. I only had 4, but that’s still kind of a lot. It’s much more than 2, for instance. I was pretty well prepared for all of them, but I’ve always kind of hated exams. Some of the dislike comes from the fact that they’re big tests and there’s some pressure in taking them, sure, but another big factor is that they totally ruin pre-break goodbyes. You can say goodbye on the Friday before, but you know you’ll see ‘em at least one other time. But then, during exams, you don’t know when you’ll see them last, so you might get lucky and time it perfect, or you might miss a goodbye altogether, or you might say it early and then every time you see them after that is really awkward, and the more meaningful the goodbye, the more awkward it is. It’s sort of like if you have a dog, and it dies, and you’re very sad. But then it comes back to life, but you know it’s going to die again really soon, so you don’t want to get attached to it again. Because it will die.
Of course, this year I didn’t have to worry about that, because I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, and certainly no one said goodbye to me. After the last exam, I just kind of unceremoniously walked off campus and down the sandy road to home. There was no big hugs or presents, no swapping of e-mails to stay in touch for the whole 2 weeks we won’t see each other, none of that. I just walked away. While walking home, I remembered where I was at this time last year. I cleaned out my locker, put on 3 extra layers of clothing, snow gloves, a Pink Floyd ski cap, and said goodbye to a few friends. There was snow on the ground, and I was probably ecstatic about the fact that I was going home for a whole week, planning to see not only my extended family but my friends as well. This break? Well, we’re moving tomorrow, there sure as heck isn’t any snow, and I have no idea what I will occupy my 3 weeks of idle time with. Half of the people at school are leaving anyways, migrating from the dorms to various West African countries. The other half is staying here, and they usually have relatives, mostly siblings, coming to their house and taking up they’re time.
Although, I'm not friends with either half, so I guess it's a moot point.
-Will
"I get by with a little help from my friends."
P.S. After that last exam, I walked home, arrived, got a call from my teacher, walked back finished the last page (which I had evidently forgotten) and walked back. It was a blast.
P.S. S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
And to All a Good Night
Study for an English exam, or write a blog entry. I think we all know where this is going.
We've had a lot of mosquitoes in the house recently. There was a pretty sunset today. I almost went to the beach last Tuesday. Kids played soccer during the Christmas program tonight. All our fans have been running nonstop these past few days.
What do these seemingly random situations have in common? None of them should be happening in December. Living in New England forces you to really appreciate the ebb and flows of the seasons. From harsh, snowy winters to beautiful, orange and red falls, I've developed a seasonal clock in me which is now horribly off-time. Because, according to this particular time piece, it's August.
Somehow it's really hard to me to get in the Christmas spirit when I'm walking around in short and a t-shirt all the time. Christmas, to me, is defined by cold weather, decorated stores, and a chance of snow. Call me a child of the always commercializing America, but when I turn on the radio and don't hear Christmas songs, it's not December. When I walk to school and don't see a single Christmas light, it's not December. When the thermometer reads 80 degrees and I'm sweating in gym shorts, it's not December!
Of course, there are a myriad of different reasons I seem to lack the "Christmas spirit" recently. Maybe it's because we're moving to the new house in 4 days and we don't have any decorations up yet. Maybe it's because everyone at school seems pretty darn cheery, and I do my best to act the opposite of DAers. Maybe it's because everyone around me spited and butchered Halloween, and I don't have any warm feelings when they want to celebrate their favorite holiday. And then, it could be because I'm in West Africa, 5,000 miles away of my home or my friends and I despise my school and the people who frequent it. My money's on "all of the above."
-Will
"I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know."
We've had a lot of mosquitoes in the house recently. There was a pretty sunset today. I almost went to the beach last Tuesday. Kids played soccer during the Christmas program tonight. All our fans have been running nonstop these past few days.
What do these seemingly random situations have in common? None of them should be happening in December. Living in New England forces you to really appreciate the ebb and flows of the seasons. From harsh, snowy winters to beautiful, orange and red falls, I've developed a seasonal clock in me which is now horribly off-time. Because, according to this particular time piece, it's August.
Somehow it's really hard to me to get in the Christmas spirit when I'm walking around in short and a t-shirt all the time. Christmas, to me, is defined by cold weather, decorated stores, and a chance of snow. Call me a child of the always commercializing America, but when I turn on the radio and don't hear Christmas songs, it's not December. When I walk to school and don't see a single Christmas light, it's not December. When the thermometer reads 80 degrees and I'm sweating in gym shorts, it's not December!
Of course, there are a myriad of different reasons I seem to lack the "Christmas spirit" recently. Maybe it's because we're moving to the new house in 4 days and we don't have any decorations up yet. Maybe it's because everyone at school seems pretty darn cheery, and I do my best to act the opposite of DAers. Maybe it's because everyone around me spited and butchered Halloween, and I don't have any warm feelings when they want to celebrate their favorite holiday. And then, it could be because I'm in West Africa, 5,000 miles away of my home or my friends and I despise my school and the people who frequent it. My money's on "all of the above."
-Will
"I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know."
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I Wonder How You Spell Tobasco...
So today, as I was walking home from school, I realized that it was the first time in months I had returned home from youth group without unbridled rage leaking out my ears. That thought process somehow led me to the fact I haven't posted in a while, and here we are.
Well, truth be told, I really only have two stories to tell, but I'll probably find some clever way to meaningfully connect them together to wrap up at the end. First, on Tuesday, we went to an African friends' house to celebrate Tobasci. In case there is someone reading this who has not previously made themselves familiar with traditional Senegalese...traditions, I will tell you what this is. Tobasci is the most popular Senegalese holiday, and is usually celebrated by eating sheep. And since there is no frozen mutton lining the shelves of the Dakar Market Basket (Is he kidding? Is he not? You may never know.), everyone also kills and prepares said lamb. And now you know more about culture, and have taken the next step of being a man/woman of the world. You're welcome.
Now, here's another conundrum I'm faced with. In recent months, I have noticed that my stomach is considerably weaker than I felt it once was. I cannot decide whether that is truly the case, or that the smells and sights here are truly that much worse than in Quebec or Franklin. No matter which, I will tell you that the basic "city smell" of Dakar is unearthly. The smell of the cooking of the apartment below us has nearly sent me into convulsions. Also, I won't get into the details of the traditional Wolof preparation of lamb, but I will say that multiple Africans wringing sheep intestines into a metal bowl on the ground is not pretty. And I thought The Jungle was bad. So that was my day off Tuesday, but then I got to eat some lamb! With some lamb hairs on it and everything, just like mom used to make.*
Another weird thing happened to me, on Wednesday this time. During gym, we were over in this area of the "field" (see: square of sand) where chunks of cement are more frequent than blades of grass, practicing running for the Olympics thing they do at DA every year. All of a sudden, a girl in my class points behind me and screams "Rat! it's a rat!", and before you can say R.O.U.S., 6 or 7 males in a 5 yard vicinity had aforementioned chunks of cement in their hands and a somewhat hungry look in their eyes, sprinting after it and hurling rocks at it. They nearly hit it a few times, but the 2-foot-wide monstrosity withdrew into its hole before 15 seconds had passed.
I still don't know why this happened. This is a perfect example of me being completely out of place here. There is an exclusive Missionary Kid club, and am not-and have no interest in being-a member. The screaming of the presence of a rat I understand, but why everyone tried to kill it and why everyone knew everyone else was going to help try to kill it is so far beyond me it just passed the Andromeda galaxy.
And these two reflect on my experience so far in Africa...because...rats...and lambs...are both...mammals.
-Will
"Rodents Of Unusual Size? I don't believe they exist."
*Mom, your cooking is delicious. This was a joke.
Well, truth be told, I really only have two stories to tell, but I'll probably find some clever way to meaningfully connect them together to wrap up at the end. First, on Tuesday, we went to an African friends' house to celebrate Tobasci. In case there is someone reading this who has not previously made themselves familiar with traditional Senegalese...traditions, I will tell you what this is. Tobasci is the most popular Senegalese holiday, and is usually celebrated by eating sheep. And since there is no frozen mutton lining the shelves of the Dakar Market Basket (Is he kidding? Is he not? You may never know.), everyone also kills and prepares said lamb. And now you know more about culture, and have taken the next step of being a man/woman of the world. You're welcome.
Now, here's another conundrum I'm faced with. In recent months, I have noticed that my stomach is considerably weaker than I felt it once was. I cannot decide whether that is truly the case, or that the smells and sights here are truly that much worse than in Quebec or Franklin. No matter which, I will tell you that the basic "city smell" of Dakar is unearthly. The smell of the cooking of the apartment below us has nearly sent me into convulsions. Also, I won't get into the details of the traditional Wolof preparation of lamb, but I will say that multiple Africans wringing sheep intestines into a metal bowl on the ground is not pretty. And I thought The Jungle was bad. So that was my day off Tuesday, but then I got to eat some lamb! With some lamb hairs on it and everything, just like mom used to make.*
Another weird thing happened to me, on Wednesday this time. During gym, we were over in this area of the "field" (see: square of sand) where chunks of cement are more frequent than blades of grass, practicing running for the Olympics thing they do at DA every year. All of a sudden, a girl in my class points behind me and screams "Rat! it's a rat!", and before you can say R.O.U.S., 6 or 7 males in a 5 yard vicinity had aforementioned chunks of cement in their hands and a somewhat hungry look in their eyes, sprinting after it and hurling rocks at it. They nearly hit it a few times, but the 2-foot-wide monstrosity withdrew into its hole before 15 seconds had passed.
I still don't know why this happened. This is a perfect example of me being completely out of place here. There is an exclusive Missionary Kid club, and am not-and have no interest in being-a member. The screaming of the presence of a rat I understand, but why everyone tried to kill it and why everyone knew everyone else was going to help try to kill it is so far beyond me it just passed the Andromeda galaxy.
And these two reflect on my experience so far in Africa...because...rats...and lambs...are both...mammals.
-Will
"Rodents Of Unusual Size? I don't believe they exist."
*Mom, your cooking is delicious. This was a joke.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
May Flowers Bring December Showers
I had a shower experience I just had to share with everyone today. It has a mind of its own.
(All times Greenwich standard. And not exact)
7:05- Shaken by Dad, told to wake up
7:10- Hear loud noises in kitchen, decide to wake up
7:13- Turn water on in shower, pick up the right door and put in place
10 seconds later- Dad calls in through bathroom window (I know, right?) that the hot water heater is "working"
1 second later- I recall the last time I had a shower that wasn't cold. It was August 6th.
5 seconds later- Step into shower
10 seconds later- finish closing left door after trying for 9 seconds
3 seconds later- Turn cold water on, then try to turn hot water on. Hot water doesn't work, so I give up, shiver for a minute, then get used to it
7:24- Finish shower. Turn water off. Try hot water again just for kicks. It works.
3 seconds later- After disappointment leaves, I try to turn hot water off. It is stuck.
15 seconds later- Succeed in turning hot water knob all the way to the right. Cold water continues to pour.
2 seconds later- After checking both knobs are off, I just let the cold water run.
1 second later- Step out of shower, kick the right door by accident, and it falls off, knocking the shower head out of its holder.
6:34 p.m.- While taking pictures of the shower, the shower head pours water on me and the door falls from its position and hits me over the head.
-Will
"When I get older, losing my hair,
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine,
birthday greetings, bottle of wine?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)