Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Sijak (She-Jack) Means Start

Max now has two weeks of Taekwondo classes tucked neatly under his belt. Our reasons for enrolling him were twofold: learn some self-defense techniques and make a few friends. Thus far, however, he's only managed to kick, block and strike. Check out his class:
Can you find Max in the crowd?
Two. Two kids are in the class. And Max is one of them. Perhaps enrollment will be higher later in the year? Despite the complete lack of potential friendships, Max is thoroughly enjoying himself every Monday and Thursday, standing, blocking and kicking the afternoon away.
Stand up straight, Max-kid.
Hiiii-yah!

Boy be happy.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Ooh, a ball!

"Ooh, a ball!
Daddy, let's play soccer!"
"Nah, I think I'll rest."
Isn't this the same kid who was just lamenting, "Dad, pick me up.  We've been walking all day!"
The same father who just said, "We've hardly walked at all.  Come on, we're almost to the park."

by Josh

Monday, September 26, 2011

Childhood Trauma Payback

When my brothers and I were little, we'd often get in trouble. My parents, being the lovingly gentle people they are, used timeouts in favor of spanking. We were never put in a corner (that's degrading). Our bedroom was not an option either (we might have fun in there after all). Timeout was in the bathroom. Its relatively safe and utterly boring.
A couple of weeks ago, Max locked himself in the bathroom. Every key in the house, a hammer, a wrench, jacks, a nun, a unicycle and 40 minutes later, he was out. He had eaten a peanut butter & jelly sandwich, passed through the slatted window, while in there. Boy would die in the wild. The owner came with a key she'd forgotten to give us, finally ending the ordeal. Since that time we haven't been able to shut our door. The lock was broken in the process. Pooping happens at lightening speed, hoping no one will bump into the door, swinging it open for full exposure (and inevitably, a blog post announcing it to the world--err... all seven of you).
Today, in an effort to fix the door, hours of childhood trauma were paid back in a sweet coincidence. My mother put herself in timeout. The door wouldn't open. "Josh!" she called, desperate. As soon as we realized what had happened, we came with the key. To no avail. Max began to panic. His salvation had been that key. And now it wasn't working. Grandma was in a serious jam. He lost all hope. As the adults consulted about what to do, listing our resources, laughing while we worked, Max disappeared. We decided to unhinge the door, so passed a hammer through that same slatted window. Max appeared and slid what he thought would liberate my mother, under the door. One of her credit cards. Works every time in Hollywood, why not?
The incarcerated.
Relief came when, under bright lights and with the Paparazzi on his tail, Josh kicked the door down, saving my sweet madre (who had taken off the hinges). My hero saved the day. Yet again.
My hero!
The release.
Were you wounded, Grandma?

Friday, September 23, 2011

No Food is Allowed in the Fridge

Its a rule at work. No food is allowed on the entire third floor where the Applied Linguistics department resides. Especially not in the kitchen, fridge or the lounge/conference/tutoring room where I eat lunch. Don't jump to conclusions. I have yet to break any rules. I figured I'd save that for next semester.

How does one eat lunch without consuming food? Very carefully.
I began to understand the distinction between "food" and all other consumables after a conversation with an expat friend who is married to a Dominican. "I come home sometimes," she explained to me, "and he says that he hasn't eaten all day. What?! I ask and he confirms, 'Yeah. I only had a sandwich for lunch!'"

I'm compiling a list. In the fridge last week there was a papaya, yogurt and a cake. Not food. Sandwiches aren't food. Chips, cookies and mild cheeses. They don't have "food" status either. Each time I put my lunch bag in the fridge, the person in charge of cleaning the kitchen and serving coffee asks me sternly, "Is that food?" I have to convince myself I'm not lying to her when I answer, "Nope!" and then run away.

After a potluck lunch last week in the conference room, our fabulous head secretary came in and thoroughly doused the room in air freshener as if we had been changing dirty diapers. She was covering for us somehow. I just didn't understand it entirely. Today, we found out why. The true definition of food, according to the Linguistics Department, is any sustenance that emits a lingering smell.

As there isn't any microwave available, I should be able to bring a nice variety of "non-food items" to eat cold without worrying about the Smell-Emission Police. Lunch is solved.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

I Believe They Call It 'Harrowing'

A "harrowing experience." Yes. I do my best not to take taxis because of the expense. My general weenyness and overall appalling lack of direction, however, have had me hailing a taxista on my way to work more often than not. I've always been able to make it home. From anywhere.
A poor decision from the weekend started it all. I neglected to apply sunscreen to my rapidly aging skin. A bad idea all around and just downright stupid when you're on a beach in the Caribbean. Sorry, Mom.
Come Monday, a taxi home to avoid walking in midday sun would be necessary. A concho to work (so as not to spend too much of my days' earnings getting there and back) was the plan.
An hour before class started, I walked out to the main road, stood at a busy corner and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Honk! Hooonk! Honk! A concho driver on the other side of the street was waving me toward him, pesos in his eyes.
"I'm going the opposite direction!" I yelled as a truck passed between us.
"Its okay, you'll get to where you're going," Eager-Driver promised, continuing to wave me into his concho.
This is where the movie pauses, me in mid-step across the street, and the narrator comes on, "This was her first mistake of the day."
Josh had told me about an alternate concho route I could take in the morning that would allow me to get close to the university without having to play Frogger on death highway. It was a bit of a round-about, but would be significantly safer. I thought, "Well, I guess I'll try it this morning," and hopped in behind Eager-Driver. Off we sped.
Ten minutes later, I made my next concho connection just fine. "Wow," I thought to myself, "I'm actually doing this!" I smiled, pleased that I was overcoming some serious fears. I sat next to several students and mentioned to the driver where I was going (since I had zero idea where I was supposed to get off nor what the campus looked like from that end since it comprises 300 acres). We drove. And drove. And drove some more. All the students got out of the car at a technology university which I knew was semi-close to the one I teach at. It couldn't be much farther, right? We continued driving. Picking up passengers. Dropping off passengers. At one point, quite a ways into the drive, a pregnant woman with a watch got in. As the driver continued picking up passengers, she scooted ever-closer to me.
I glanced down at her swollen wrist. Panic officially set in. Class started in 12 minutes. I didn't recognize anything. Dilapidated buildings were on my right; a cliff, river and mountains to my left. My university is nestled downtown. I breathed slowly for two minutes, gathering strength, then turned to Prego-TimeKeeper.
"Excuse me," I whispered, "Do you know where PUCMM is?"
She looked, eyes wide as if the panic had infected her as well, "Its waaaaaay back there!" she pointed.
"Driver," she shouted, "This young person needed to go to PUCMM!" (I'm always called "young person" here. I don't deny it.)
He pulled over and I got out on the side of the highway. "Take a concho the other direction," he yelled out the window as he drove off. Thanks.
The reel stops again, narrator man says, "Her next move was, by far, the most idiotic of the morning."
Despite plenty of time en route to reflect up to that point, I hadn't quite yet figured out how I'd gotten into this predicament. A concho pulled up, I got in and searched my pockets as we gathered speed. Empty.
"Driver, I don't have any pesos." Screech! I was back on the side of the road, practically with a boot print on my booty. I wouldn't know where to get off at from that concho route anyway.
Long story slightly shorter, I finally found a taxi who zig-zagged me all over the city so he could tell me when we finally arrived, "200 pesos." That, dear reader, is almost 40% more than I normally pay for a taxi ride.
"What?!" I looked at him, shocked at his brazenness. I was being taken advantage of. Perhaps my New Years resolution will be to actively work on my severe directional handicap.
Unswerving and unapologetic, he responded, "You were really far out there, Miss."


Tuesday, September 20, 2011

You're Invited!

With just days to spare before my sweet madre was to arrive, Jesse and Josh succeeded in furnishing our home with not one, but two couches and a dining room table (and six chairs!). I would like to formally thank you for all of your petitions on our behalf to the furniture gods. You've outdone yourselves. Their first acquisition, hereafter called The Kids' Couch:

Max, Ami & Zora added "sitting" to their daily activities.

So, dear reader, please, come inside and sit down. My Dominican blender is fierce and mangoes are still in season. We can sip a lovely smoothie while we sit comfortably and chat a bit.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Last 24 Hours.

Were spent gloriously. On a whim, we decided to leave the city for 24 hours. We traveled by bus, for $3, a mere hour from home to see what all Google image results show for our fair country: beach. It is an island, after all.
We're here!
Running of the Bean.
Love!
Salty-sweet boy.
All you can eat buffet = piles of mangoes.
Shady lady.
Z child & me lounging.
Kiddie pool pleasures.

A quick hop, skip & a jump later, we're back in Santiago, preparing for Monday, signalling another week of work and homeschool. Hope y'all had a fabulous weekend too!

Friday, September 16, 2011

Ill, Ill, Ill

I've been avoiding this one. It makes grandparents nervous. And none of us want that. Now that all is well, however, I'm happy to recount the saga of Max's illness which spanned the last two weeks. The jury is still out on what exactly it was. The word "dengue" was heard frequently in our conversations.
We are, perhaps, some of the most fortunate foreigners in the country as far as healthcare is concerned. A brand new hospital, HOMS, has been built relatively close to our home (Josh and Max went three times in the last nine days). We also--get this--live two doors down from an excellent pediatrician who works (home visits included) for baked goods and a smile. Coincidentally, she is a Baha'i pioneer with a heart of gold. When little man Max was at his worst, paler than palomitas*, sitting on the pot with it coming out both ends, his eyes sunken, forehead on fire, head wobbling in attempts to keep it upright, this angel sat next to him, holding his hand, telling him everything would be okay. We are forever indebted to yet another wonderful soul.
Last night, my sweet boy ate and ate heartily. I looked at him. "Mama," he returned my gaze and spoke softly, "I've been hungry all weekend." (The "weekend" is, of course, an abstract concept to him meaning "the last few days.") Kid had either not been able to keep anything down or had been relegated to the BRAT* diet. A proper meal had been a personal goal of his all "weekend."
We'll be packing the pounds back on him in coming weeks. Grandma Jan will be here before we know it (Read: Lots of spoilin'). And all is well.



*popcorn or little doves
*If you're a mother, you likely already know, BRAT stands for bananas, rice, applesauce and toast; all things easily digestible for a sensitive tummy. 

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The Gymnast

The youngest and blondest in her group, Zora is officially a gymnast. Not because she can do anything in particular, but because she has the proper attire. This, as we all know, is of the utmost importance. She enjoys prancing around in her leotard well after gymnastics class pretending to practice with the Olympic team.

Keep your back straight!

Point your toes!

She's so little! Let's see if we can touch her.

Happy. Happy.

Max has Tae Kwon Do tomorrow. Little man has been quite under the weather as of late however. We'll see if he'll be up to it.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Please, Take a ... Hmmm. Floor?

I've been wanting to write you all for some time now to tell you: We have furniture! Unfortunately, that time has yet to come. We are still sitting on the borrowed outdoor, plastic chairs from the Baha'i Center. The floor has also been a popular place to congregate. I like to get in my day's real chair sitting while at work since the chairs are so much nicer there. Pathetic, I hear ya.
It turns out that sitting around and wishing for something doesn't work around these parts. Actively hitting the pavement hasn't resulted in much yet either, though.
Furniture stores, check.
Peoples homes, check (they were actually selling their things, we weren't casin' the joints).
Side of the road, check.
Newspaper, check.
Internet, double check.
Its not that we're particularly picky. Well, only on one point: the price. If we were besties with VISA, we'd be sittin' pretty by now.
We thought we'd found some great sofas on IKEA.com.do last week. They deliver! We pulled out our credit card, ready to buy the discounted white ones (we can dye them!) only to discover that they were actually only couch covers. Oh! So that's why it was such a deal. 
Dominican Craigslist, although useless for much of anything else, is often quite humorous. Most of the items for sale there are actually in cities in the US where Dominicans live: Miami and NYC pop up fairly often. Perhaps these few have decided that it isn't the geographic location the site is referring to, but that it is actually for Dominican people, no matter where they are. I love the idea of that. So, if I want to sell my stuff only to my fellow Salem-ites (yes, I was born there), all I need to do is hop onto Salem Craigslist and there I can find them, all over the world, connecting at our hub on the internet. Cute. But perhaps a bit useless.
Having exhausted other resources, I'm turning to you, dear reader. If you have an in with the furniture gods, please put in a good word for us. We would appreciate it ever so much. My mother is coming to visit next week and I hope to have a place for her to sit down when she arrives.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

I was at a staff meeting...

One of my favorite Seinfeld episodes is the one where Kramer randomly ends up working 9-5 in an office, putting in long hours to finish his "report", coming home exhausted to Jerry, who asks him, "When did you get a job??"  
Kramer ultimately ends up getting fired for not really having done anything. "But you can't fire me," he laments, "I don't actually work here."
That's kind of how I felt last Thursday, when a passing conversation about possibly tutoring for a private school here led to an interview and before I knew it I was signing a contract and sitting in a staff meeting.  "How did I get here?" I thought to myself.  "I thought I was done with staff meetings!"  
As a home-schooling father, after all, the only staff meetings I was envisioning involved Jesse and me talking about educational theory over Big Macs while the kids played in the playplace. C'est la vie. 
So it was that I stumbled into the house in the middle of dinner, telling Rebecca, "Sorry I'm late.  I was at a staff meeting."  
"I didn't even know you had a job," she replied.
"Yeah, apparently I do," I mused.
Really though, it is exciting.  My employment will allow Max and Zora to do after-school activities for half-price, letting them make friends and hopefully learn something new.  That's really the reason I took the job, so I'm hoping they love it.  Tomorrow we need to get a leotard for Zora, who's extremely excited about gymnastics.  Max would also like to do gymnastics, but unfortunately, for whatever reason, it's girls only.
On a side note, while signing my contract the HR person told me that a simple medical checkup would be necessary for my employment, given that I'll work with children.  Let's just say I've never given three types of fluids to get a job, let alone a part time one, nor have I peed under the strict supervision of a security guard, but I guess I'll just have to hope they're not storing my DNA to clone future geniuses.  Watch out world, here we come.


Saturday, September 10, 2011

Chh-Chh, Psst!

"In the United States," I sternly warned my students, "we use those noises to shoo away pesky animals." A student had, in an attempt to get my attention, made the same noise men in the street make at me. Now was my chance. A cultural awareness opportunity had presented itself. "If you want to get a woman's attention," I pointed at my male students, "try speaking to her. Excuse me, Miss? Do you have the time? And start a conversation." They laughed. "Well," I shrugged, "just trying to help you woo North American women."
On my way home, I was propositioned with all the customary noises and calls, "Rubia!", "Bella!", "Americana!", and my favorite, "I love you!" Finally, after a particularly hot and dusty walk, I turned onto our quiet street.
"Hola, mi corazon. Hello, my heart," an older man with a heavy load called to me. I walked past him (as I've trained myself to do when I'm offered that kind of attention), without a word.
"You should greet the poor," he scolded me once I had passed him. Humbled, I turned, smiled and lowered my head in apology.
Perhaps my head is thicker than the average bear. Baha'u'llah is constantly reminding me--in mostly subtle ways--that I will never be able to pay back all that I've been offered in this world. And what do I know about anything anyway?

Thursday, September 8, 2011

They're Here!

Not the zombies. Our beloved housemates. They've finally arrived. And we feel like we've hit the jackpot. Jesse, Martine and darling Amelie are some of the best people we know. Josh and I are still baffled as to why they agreed to live with us (and perhaps they are too). But the deal is done. There's no turning back--or at least not until August 2012.
Hours before their arrival, Max & Zora could hardly contain themselves. They were inventing unusual dance moves, complicated hip swiveling and head banging while singing to a beat all their own, "Our cousin Amelie. Cousin Amelie. She's comin' tonight. Comin' tonight." Note: We're not technically related.
My excitement kept me up into the next morning. Thirty years old and still making poor decisions. "That's the beauty of adulthood," we frequently tell Max, "you get to make all your own decisions." And then live with the consequences. Now I'm the zombie.
Day two after my self-induced sleep deprivation and I have yet to bounce back. I drank so much coffee this morning (to make it through my work day), my hands shook. My eyelids, however, were still lead weights.
I do have a two-hour lunch break. I wonder if there is a university policy regarding professors sleeping on the outdoor benches.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Dear Mom, Now I Understand: An Open Letter

Sweet Madre O' Mine,
For years I have teased you mercilessly about your ongoing game of Whack-A-Mole in the front yard. I would watch you, a grin on my face, as you spent hours with that garden hose awaiting your next unsuspecting victim to rise from its flooded home. Whack! The swiftness of the hose slicing through the air, you hit your mark each time. I will no longer question your dedication to that task. Though my nemesis is a different one, I have now been baptized in the same waters. I'm a believer.
Josh brought home a most glorious device. It is the size and shape of a badminton racket with some fundamental differences. Yes, mother. He bought me a bug zapper. What would be strings is a metal net of sorts which boasts an electric current. I push a button, gently wave it through the air and hear the sweet sounds of mosquito annihilation. They literally spark and disintegrate on contact. Poof. I'm addicted. And its rechargeable.
In one swoop, I've eradicated four mosquitoes. Poof, poof, poof, poof! Four! With time, I hope to improve. Max feeds my ego all the while. Each time the zapper makes contact, he says, "All right, Mom!" or "Yes!" or "Nice one!" I have a cheerleader. I now see the appeal of them as well.
The only feature I feel it is lacking? A scoreboard. I'm not asking for a sports announcer to call out my kills or anything. A simple LED display would do quite nicely. It would track each extermination, awarding points depending on size and speed at time of death. Bonus points could be incentive to take out more than one per swoop (Sam, can you make one for me?).
Thus, dear mother, I apologize. I was insensitive to mock you. I now understand the glory of the kill. The hype that is created. The satisfaction felt. You were right all along.
Love,
bo

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Dreaded Commute

Karma must have had her hand in this one. My last work commute was, quite literally, a pleasant seven-minute stroll which involved greeting both neighbors and students along the way. I openly relished and full-out-gloated to my colleagues who, more often than not, had hour-long commutes with sides of traffic and lots of freeway. Well, dear coworkers, your time has come. I officially have a nasty commute. Allow me to indulge you, as a penance of sorts for the wrongs I inflicted every lunch hour as we chatted.
The official distance from my door to the exact building I teach in is about 2.5 miles. Indeed, it is a distance one would be happy to bike were certain death not a factor. Imagine, dear reader, an ant colony and their comings and goings. Swarming and dispersing, each with its own agenda and specific, chosen route, this is how vehicle travel functions here. I'm still a newbie, but am fairly certain that should traffic laws in fact exist, they are absolutely ignored. Driving is a social contract involving just the right amount of give and take to get you where you need to go, as quickly as possible, without an accident (which are almost always fatal here).
I plan an hour for my journey, unless I get cold feet and splurge 7% of my anticipated day's income on a taxi that takes me from door to door. On my brave days (which have, admittedly, been very few), I walk down my rather quiet street about 1/4 of a mile to the intersection of a bustling two-lane road which is often mistaken for a three-lane highway. If I am lucky, I catch a concho, which are few and far between on this particular stretch. A concho is the poor man's taxi. It has a specific route which it travels back and forth, all the while honking at every pedestrian, often stopping to pick them up. The mornings are quite busy and I've found myself in a concho with 6 other passengers and the driver, sharing physical intimacies I normally prefer to save for my husband. These aren't spacious New York cabs, they're tired, 1987 Toyota Corolas with a sticker slapped on the side for officiality.
From there, I'm dropped another mile down the road onto the main (and actual) highway, Autopista Duarte (Mom, don't Google image that highway). I then wave down another concho to take me ever closer to the university and to the worst part of my commute: playing Frogger just like George in that Seinfeld episode, but with a few added obstacles. What obstacles, you ask? Oh, just two separate, cement freeway dividers and a fence spanning 6 lanes. No biggie.
Forget about arriving to work looking fresh and professional. I'm thrilled to arrive with a pulse. Were I single, I would have found myself a boyfriend with a car by now. Here's hoping I can find a taxista who desperately wants to trade an hour a week of English tutoring for a lift every morning. Wish me luck!

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Fashionista: Making it Work with Less

Sweet Max and 'Lil Zora have been living without a great many things that they were accustomed to in the States. Aside from the occasional "I wish we were in Woodburn" comments, my offspring have adapted surprisingly well to their new surroundings. They've become more creative with their play and are actually opting more for pure imagination than with the toys that we did bring to the island.
Zora, however, has had a hard time with the lack of clothing. We decided to dedicate most of our allotted luggage weight to books when we moved, so we don't have nearly the wardrobes we boasted stateside. This little lady is a clothes-horse. We've had to invent rules specifically for her. Unlike her brother who has to be coaxed into changing his shirt at least once every 24 hours, she enjoys a full outfit change once every 45 minutes or so. Zora rule: You can change once a day. That's it. Otherwise, you have to pay daddy to wash your clothes. Since she is currently unemployed, that rule has worked for now.
The other day, I was pleased to see that she had invented new sandals for herself. She's changing her outfit without creating more laundry. You've got it. Zora is now accessorizing. Check out the tiny fashionista's latest:

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Professorship

Now that I've been an official university professor for an entire week, I am happy to share with you some initial ramblings. This particular university is in love with formality; my Achilles heel, if you will. I fear frequent reprimands in my future. For now, however, I'm livin' it up in the anonymity of a newbie.
I have four Advanced English classes that each meet three times a week. I'm on campus from 7:30 until noon or 8:30 'til 4 (with a two hour lunch break), depending on the day. The worst part is the commute, deserving of its own post. The best part, as always, is the teaching.
Upon arrival, I pick up my attendance list from the bedel (translated: porter) who has his own little office complete with desk, chair and filing cabinet. The entire purpose of his job, as far as I can tell, is to make sure the professors arrive on time and don't have some other poor sap teaching in their place. I am required to take attendance every hour of class (usually two) and turn the list back in at the end of each class. I'm fairly certain attendance was never taken when I was a uni student. Several of my professors didn't even know my name. When does the gradual release of responsibility happen for these kids?
From there, I just have oodles of fun. The vast majority of my students speak and understand at a level that allows me to use the language in a transparent way. This week, I focused on everyone getting to know each other. Read: we told heaps of stories. And laughed. And laughed. Yesterday, to round out the week, I confessed how my 'lil bros and I regularly made Rice Krispie Treats in secret, eating entire batches in one sitting out behind our house, told the true story of saving my brother's life (it does so count, Sam!), and taught 80 wide-eyed city-dwellers how to hypnotize a chicken. Maybe we'll get to some grammar next week.
Unfortunately, I don't think I can justify 14 weeks of "Real Life Stories of a Country-Mouse Oregonian." One of my many weekend goals is to organize some actual lesson plans. This will take a great deal of creativity on my part as my entire list of resources is as follows:
*Chalkboard
*Chalk
*Eraser
*Hot and humid classroom
Oh the possibilities! Chalk? Really? I turned to my students the first day of class, "Do all of your classrooms have just a chalkboard?"
They all nodded.
"You do know how old school that is, right?"
Blank stares.
Here we go!

Friday, September 2, 2011

Sacrilege? Likely.

I love Christ (And Buddha and Krishna and Moses and Muhammad and Baha'u'llah). Lots of other people love Christ too. There are a great many number of ways to love, dear reader, and ways to show said love. Read on.

Perhaps we are some of the slowest people on the planet to accomplish things, but we don't have our own plates yet (we do have our own bowls though!). We've been using plates from the Baha'i Center.


Merry Christmas. Now, I will fully admit here that all things Christmas do not necessarily have to do with Christ. The day has, unfortunately, morphed into a great many things not so close to the Son of God. Does anyone know where the idea of cutting down a tree and bringing it inside for it to die came from? I don't. But it does have a certain charm to it.

Although we actually do have a few things to cook with, we also borrowed a pot from the Centro. Look closely.

Its not as bad as the Virgin Mary on semi truck mud flaps, but this pot has to have made the list. I double heart Jesus. Even while I'm boiling water for pasta.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Heat Tsunami

This ain't no weeny wave. Its hot. Except, I fear that the current weather we're experiencing isn't a fluke. I think its a normal season. We've been told that there are two seasons here: verano (summer) and infierno (hell, which rhymes with invierno, the word for winter). According to these kind informants, we are currently in hell. Welcome.
Allow me to illustrate.
Example One: Yesterday, I was writing on the board in my classroom. Whenever I do this, for the last however many years I've been teaching, the thought always pops into my head, "I hope none of my students are looking at my butt." For the first time that I can recall, I wasn't hoping they weren't looking at my booty. I was hoping they weren't looking at me at all. My entire body was sweating profusely. I'm fairly certain that, for the first time in my life, I had back sweat that soaked through my shirt. A big, sweaty wet spot. On my work shirt. At work.
In an attempt to "modernize" the classrooms, the university has installed air conditioners in several of the classrooms. Part of this process involved removing the overhead fans. Now, if they could just get the AC wired properly. Result? Its just hotter than ever.
Example Two: Josh was hanging wet laundry to dry while I was washing dishes. The kids were running wild. We all stopped, mid-activity when we heard an explosion inside the house.
"What was that?!" Josh ran in, his eyes darting about looking for injured people or crumbling walls.
I pointed to the kitchen cupboards that had flung open, liquid spraying everywhere.
The delivery boy from the local colmado (a small, neighborhood market) told us that if it gets too hot, bottles will explode. Noted. And check out the lid. It started melting down onto itself. I've put many of our things in the fridge since then. Now if only I could fit in there for a short respite...