Alicia Gomez is one of those people that I will never forget. Oh, if I could just see her now...I’d give her a huge hug and then spend the next four hours listening to her. And then I would listen some more, because boy can she talk! I can still see her brown and gray hair curled tightly to her head, and especially those eyes. She had eyes as bright and curious as a child's. She was always excited, and always on to something new.
As we had been getting to know Alicia we began to notice an odd arrangement of baby pictures hanging on the mirror in her living room. What made the situation strange was that these pictures had obviously been cut out of magazines and ads. “Alicia,” we finally asked her, “what are all of the pictures of babies for?” We were not expecting the answer she gave us, let me tell you.
She smiled lovingly at the pictures. “Promise not to laugh at me? Or think I’m strange?” She asked this a lot, and we always answered, “Of course not, Alicia!” She then proceeded to tell us that she had an amazing magical gift (we found out that she actually had several), that when someone she knew was expecting a baby, she would find pictures in magazines, hang them up, and then the baby would end up looking exactly like the baby from the picture. We smiled and nodded politely… “sure, sure Alicia. That is just wonderful!” But then she showed us evidence, and we were made believers. She showed us one of her magazine clippings alongside a picture of a recent grandbaby…they were spookily identical. And the proof didn’t end there either. She began to pull several pictures from cupboards and off of the fridge, each with a magazine picture of a baby…all of them a perfect match!
After sorting through dozens of photos Alicia finally said, “and this is my grandson who will be born in a month or so”, and flipped us a magazine clipping of one of the most homely looking babies ever. With all of my heart I hoped that Alicia was wrong about that particular baby…but with her odds, I knew he didn’t have a chance!
Monday, December 5, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Cow Whisperer
I have been blessed with a gift, a gift that I have just barely discovered. I, Heidi Jensen, am a cow whisperer. My grandpa owns a couple acres of land and has decided to fill that land with companions…a spotted, overweight mare, a dumb yet loving dog, and six, yes six calves. My relatives are a bit frustrated sometimes because all of those animals are a lot of work, and grandpa just can’t handle things by himself anymore—yet there he is, buying whole herds of livestock!
I absolutely adore the little calves. A few weeks ago I came down and learned how to feed them. At that time they were still on milk. Grandpa showed me how you filled a bucket with warm water and powder calf formula, and then you mix it all up with a large stick he keeps by his shop. Then for the messy part…you have to stick your hand in the bucket, fully submerged in milk, so that the cow can suck on your finger to drink the milk. Of course the milk smells funny, and the impatient calves almost run you over to get the milk—but those calves are just so cute.
Even though it has only been a few weeks, those calves really have grown quite a bit. They eat hay and grain now, and they are also quite skittish around people. Whenever anyone goes up to pet one of them, they usually bolt away. This morning though, I accomplished what no one else has…I pet a cow! One of the little calves let me quietly come up next to it. Then I started scratching its forehead. The cow got really into it and started pushing his head against my hand the way a horse does. After that I started moving to the stomach and back of the cow. When I got to the rump the cow was just in ecstasy. He started wagging his little tail and leaning his whole body towards me, just like a big, really fat dog. I have never seen a cow do that before! My cousin was amazed at how the cow trusted me. He says it must be because I have a good soul…I think that it has more to do with the hay and grain that I deliver every morning and night for the little guys….I will take the title though. “Cow Whisperer” suits me just fine!
I absolutely adore the little calves. A few weeks ago I came down and learned how to feed them. At that time they were still on milk. Grandpa showed me how you filled a bucket with warm water and powder calf formula, and then you mix it all up with a large stick he keeps by his shop. Then for the messy part…you have to stick your hand in the bucket, fully submerged in milk, so that the cow can suck on your finger to drink the milk. Of course the milk smells funny, and the impatient calves almost run you over to get the milk—but those calves are just so cute.
Even though it has only been a few weeks, those calves really have grown quite a bit. They eat hay and grain now, and they are also quite skittish around people. Whenever anyone goes up to pet one of them, they usually bolt away. This morning though, I accomplished what no one else has…I pet a cow! One of the little calves let me quietly come up next to it. Then I started scratching its forehead. The cow got really into it and started pushing his head against my hand the way a horse does. After that I started moving to the stomach and back of the cow. When I got to the rump the cow was just in ecstasy. He started wagging his little tail and leaning his whole body towards me, just like a big, really fat dog. I have never seen a cow do that before! My cousin was amazed at how the cow trusted me. He says it must be because I have a good soul…I think that it has more to do with the hay and grain that I deliver every morning and night for the little guys….I will take the title though. “Cow Whisperer” suits me just fine!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Kammerer Middle School
I walked to school my very first day, my skinny legs itching in the khaki twill pants. Twill pants and gold colored shirts is what I think of when I remember Kammerer middle school. Kammerer is the only school that I have ever gone to that has required a uniform, you know, to equalize the students and whatnot. I was a West coast girl turned military brat, and brought to Louisville, Kentucky, and I was a new sixth grader.
It was not a hallway that I entered when I walked through the front door; it was frenzy, a mob, a crushing ocean of shrieking kids, backpacks, and flying paper-wads. I pushed and fought my way to the classroom and flopped my giant backpack onto the floor by a desk near the front. That is when I met Ashley. She was ten feet tall and had smooth black hair. Her shirt was rumpled and untucked, and she slouched in her chair all sprawled out and relaxed like she had done this sixth grade thing a thousand times before. “Hey girl, what’s your name?” She asked me.
Caught by surprise I answered shyly, “Heidi. I’m new.”
“All right, that’s cool. I’m Ashley.”
Well, if Ashley was ten feet tall, then her reputation was even taller. She was the queen bee of the class, and luckily she decided that I could stick around. I tried to keep it that way. I saw what happened when someone wasn’t on Ashley’s good side. She’d get loud and mean and respond to everything they’d say with a sneering, “Whatever heifer.” I never wanted to be called a heifer.
I eased through my next classes like a camera lens, observing my new environment but not quite sure how to interact. Being a lens can work for class, but at lunch time you have to be a real person if you are going to survive. I froze as I stepped into the chaos of the cafeteria, my homemade lunch dangling in a plastic Kroger bag at my side. I didn’t know anyone, and sitting alone would be the worst thing ever.
I took a deep breath of relief when my eyes caught sight of one familiar face, one person that would know my name, Ashley. I approached the table carefully like a half-scared kitten, and was about to grab a seat when Ashley looked up at me. She was surrounded by a dozen friends that also had smooth black hair, and she boomed at me, “girl, what you doin’? You gonna sit at the negro table?”
Sound drained from that side of the cafeteria like someone had pulled the plug.
I looked around and noticed what I hadn’t before. I was the only white girl there. The rest of the white girls and boys were sitting three tables away. “I just came to sit by you.” I answered quietly, making it obvious that I wasn’t going to cause any trouble.
Ashley looked me up and down, and then a smile hit her eyes and worked down to her lips. “Sure girl, you can sit here. Welcome to the negro table.” And there I was, a military brat from the West coast, a new sixth grader in itchy twill pants, and the first white girl to eat her sandwich at the “negro table.”
It was not a hallway that I entered when I walked through the front door; it was frenzy, a mob, a crushing ocean of shrieking kids, backpacks, and flying paper-wads. I pushed and fought my way to the classroom and flopped my giant backpack onto the floor by a desk near the front. That is when I met Ashley. She was ten feet tall and had smooth black hair. Her shirt was rumpled and untucked, and she slouched in her chair all sprawled out and relaxed like she had done this sixth grade thing a thousand times before. “Hey girl, what’s your name?” She asked me.
Caught by surprise I answered shyly, “Heidi. I’m new.”
“All right, that’s cool. I’m Ashley.”
Well, if Ashley was ten feet tall, then her reputation was even taller. She was the queen bee of the class, and luckily she decided that I could stick around. I tried to keep it that way. I saw what happened when someone wasn’t on Ashley’s good side. She’d get loud and mean and respond to everything they’d say with a sneering, “Whatever heifer.” I never wanted to be called a heifer.
I eased through my next classes like a camera lens, observing my new environment but not quite sure how to interact. Being a lens can work for class, but at lunch time you have to be a real person if you are going to survive. I froze as I stepped into the chaos of the cafeteria, my homemade lunch dangling in a plastic Kroger bag at my side. I didn’t know anyone, and sitting alone would be the worst thing ever.
I took a deep breath of relief when my eyes caught sight of one familiar face, one person that would know my name, Ashley. I approached the table carefully like a half-scared kitten, and was about to grab a seat when Ashley looked up at me. She was surrounded by a dozen friends that also had smooth black hair, and she boomed at me, “girl, what you doin’? You gonna sit at the negro table?”
Sound drained from that side of the cafeteria like someone had pulled the plug.
I looked around and noticed what I hadn’t before. I was the only white girl there. The rest of the white girls and boys were sitting three tables away. “I just came to sit by you.” I answered quietly, making it obvious that I wasn’t going to cause any trouble.
Ashley looked me up and down, and then a smile hit her eyes and worked down to her lips. “Sure girl, you can sit here. Welcome to the negro table.” And there I was, a military brat from the West coast, a new sixth grader in itchy twill pants, and the first white girl to eat her sandwich at the “negro table.”
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Costume Class
Cajun was a nut-head. That was a proven fact. It didn't stop me though from entering the solid tank-like specimen of a horse in the Spring Run annual costume contest though. I was thirteen years old and had just started taking little informal lessons on Cajun, and I was in love—absolutely smitten! It didn't matter how often that horse stepped on me, dragged me, or bolted off with me, I always forgave him easily, and hopped back on. How could I not? He was big, flashy, and the most beautiful golden color that could just make you swoon! I had grown a few inches over the winter, giving me better grip and more leverage than last year...I could handle a silly little costume class, right?
The first time I saw it finished I thought that he would hate the costume. As soon as I tied the stuffed sheep to his head I knew for a fact that he hated it. We decided to make Cajun a horse in sheep's clothing (a play on “a wolf in sheep's clothing”). We had cut an old blue bed sheet to fit over Cajun's body like a normal turn-out rug, and sewed a bunch of fluffy white sheep to him to look like he was covered in a whole herd of sheep. Mom and I didn't have time though to sew eyes, ears, or limbs to any of the sheep though, so the only clue that they were actually sheep was the beautiful sheep that we made to sit on his giant white nose, hooked on a by a big ribbon that we tied underneath his thick throat-latch...much like how one would tie on a bonnet.
Mom and I knew that we entered into the contest more as a joke than anything else. There were some beautiful costumes in the class that people spent a lot of time and money putting together. My friend Sarah was one of several others entered into the class with me. She had spent hours making a whole princess costume by hand for her little chestnut mare! There was no way that Cajun and I were going to win a ribbon, but at least we'd get a few laughs.
The moment mom threw me onto Cajun's back I felt the tension in his muscles. He seemed to know he looked ridiculous, and he was not happy about it. I softly nudged him into a walk around the ring with the other mounted contestants, talking to him quietly, trying to sooth him with my voice. After a few laps in either direction around the arena we filed our horses to the middle and halted in a long line side by side. Cajun had finally seemed to relax, so I relaxed too. The judges began making their final walk through the lines, examining the details of every costume. Noticing that the judges were only a horse or two away, I quickly moved both reins to my left hand and reached forward to adjust the sheep tied to Cajun's head...Mistake...Big mistake.
Cajun did an annoyed little crow hop to the side and bolted off as heavy in my hands as a freight train. I began to wail, “get out of the way! I can't steer!” But that still didn't prevent Cajun from scattering the judges and almost running over the entire equine cast from the Wizard of Oz. Much to my horror I realized that Cajun was approaching the large perimeter wall, and I was completely out of control. After one or two useless tugs on the reins, I leaned forward, slung my right leg over Cajun's back, and pushed off for a flawless emergency dismount.
With my hands still clutching the reins, Cajun pulled me a few feet across the arena, but finally slowed down to a walk. I took a deep breath, but I couldn't stop angry, frightened tears from squeezing from my eyes. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” I said, trying to laugh it off as people rushed to my side. “Just throw me back on.” One of the judges grabbed the reins as someone else gave me a quick leg up onto the still squirming horse.
I walked Cajun around the ring in shame as the judges conferenced in the center of the ring, deciding on class placings. Finally, we were all called to the center once more. They started with 10th place to little red riding hood! Then 9th to the cowgirl....8th.....6th....5th....I waited impatiently for the awards to be handed out, ready to hop off and remove Cajun's silly costume. And then I heard the announcer say “And 4th place goes to the horse in sheep's clothing!” I chuckled in surprise as a volunteer walked over to me with a white ribbon in hand. “Want me to pin it on his bridle for you?” She asked me. “No, No! I said quickly. “Don't touch his head!” The girl smiled and then handed me my ribbon.
I knew immediately that it was a pity ribbon. I fell off and cried, so of course the judges would give me a pity ribbon. I did feel a little bad about it because I was sure that ribbon should have gone to my friend Sarah, who didn't end up with a ribbon at all. Cajun and I walked out of the arena gate and headed towards where my mom was standing. “Nice ribbon she said,” as I dismounted for the final time... “but you shouldn't have touched the sheep.”
“I know, I know,” I replied. “I shouldn't have touched the stupid sheep.”
The first time I saw it finished I thought that he would hate the costume. As soon as I tied the stuffed sheep to his head I knew for a fact that he hated it. We decided to make Cajun a horse in sheep's clothing (a play on “a wolf in sheep's clothing”). We had cut an old blue bed sheet to fit over Cajun's body like a normal turn-out rug, and sewed a bunch of fluffy white sheep to him to look like he was covered in a whole herd of sheep. Mom and I didn't have time though to sew eyes, ears, or limbs to any of the sheep though, so the only clue that they were actually sheep was the beautiful sheep that we made to sit on his giant white nose, hooked on a by a big ribbon that we tied underneath his thick throat-latch...much like how one would tie on a bonnet.
Mom and I knew that we entered into the contest more as a joke than anything else. There were some beautiful costumes in the class that people spent a lot of time and money putting together. My friend Sarah was one of several others entered into the class with me. She had spent hours making a whole princess costume by hand for her little chestnut mare! There was no way that Cajun and I were going to win a ribbon, but at least we'd get a few laughs.
The moment mom threw me onto Cajun's back I felt the tension in his muscles. He seemed to know he looked ridiculous, and he was not happy about it. I softly nudged him into a walk around the ring with the other mounted contestants, talking to him quietly, trying to sooth him with my voice. After a few laps in either direction around the arena we filed our horses to the middle and halted in a long line side by side. Cajun had finally seemed to relax, so I relaxed too. The judges began making their final walk through the lines, examining the details of every costume. Noticing that the judges were only a horse or two away, I quickly moved both reins to my left hand and reached forward to adjust the sheep tied to Cajun's head...Mistake...Big mistake.
Cajun did an annoyed little crow hop to the side and bolted off as heavy in my hands as a freight train. I began to wail, “get out of the way! I can't steer!” But that still didn't prevent Cajun from scattering the judges and almost running over the entire equine cast from the Wizard of Oz. Much to my horror I realized that Cajun was approaching the large perimeter wall, and I was completely out of control. After one or two useless tugs on the reins, I leaned forward, slung my right leg over Cajun's back, and pushed off for a flawless emergency dismount.
With my hands still clutching the reins, Cajun pulled me a few feet across the arena, but finally slowed down to a walk. I took a deep breath, but I couldn't stop angry, frightened tears from squeezing from my eyes. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” I said, trying to laugh it off as people rushed to my side. “Just throw me back on.” One of the judges grabbed the reins as someone else gave me a quick leg up onto the still squirming horse.
I walked Cajun around the ring in shame as the judges conferenced in the center of the ring, deciding on class placings. Finally, we were all called to the center once more. They started with 10th place to little red riding hood! Then 9th to the cowgirl....8th.....6th....5th....I waited impatiently for the awards to be handed out, ready to hop off and remove Cajun's silly costume. And then I heard the announcer say “And 4th place goes to the horse in sheep's clothing!” I chuckled in surprise as a volunteer walked over to me with a white ribbon in hand. “Want me to pin it on his bridle for you?” She asked me. “No, No! I said quickly. “Don't touch his head!” The girl smiled and then handed me my ribbon.
I knew immediately that it was a pity ribbon. I fell off and cried, so of course the judges would give me a pity ribbon. I did feel a little bad about it because I was sure that ribbon should have gone to my friend Sarah, who didn't end up with a ribbon at all. Cajun and I walked out of the arena gate and headed towards where my mom was standing. “Nice ribbon she said,” as I dismounted for the final time... “but you shouldn't have touched the sheep.”
“I know, I know,” I replied. “I shouldn't have touched the stupid sheep.”
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
making soup
My mom once told me that making soup is therapeutic...a spiritual experience even. I agree for the most part. Monday I had the whole apartment to myself (which is a miracle considering that there are six of us). I cranked up my music and sang loudly while I chopped up vegetables. I started out with some Cuban dance music, then I moved on to some Italian music (to inspire appetite), and then I turned things down a bit with the chill sound of some Natalie Merchant.
One of my favorite things about making soup is that you really don't have to measure anything, and you can just kind of throw in whatever. Diced onion? Why not? Chicken? Sure! What veggies do I have in my freezer? I just peeled and diced and added things according to what colors I felt like my soup should have. Did I count how many carrots I put in? Of course not! I just kept putting them in until I was satisfied with the color ratio of orange to green, white, and all of the other things that made it in.
I lived in Kentucky for a few years, and a traditional dish that they have is a stew called "Burgoo." It is pretty yummy, but there are a lot of jokes about it because apparently a long time ago it was a stew that poor families would make with anything that they could find...random animals that they hunted, veggies they had from their gardens, or even animals that they found on the side of the road. Thinking about burgoo made me smile as I dug through my own cupboards, as well as the cupboards of my roommates for delicious things to throw in.
The apartment smelled amazing, and I enjoyed sitting on the kitchen table listening to the bubbling and plopping of the aromatic "brew" on the stove top. The final test came ah hour or two later. Was this soup purely therapeutic, or did it actually have palatable qualities? Su Min, my lovely Korean roommate was the brave soul to put my soup to the test. She scooped some out into a bowl and held the bowl to her lips, blowing on it until it was cool enough. She took a sip, and then shrieked out, "so good! Taste just like Korea soup. My mom make Korea soup. It make me think of home!" I was pretty thrilled by Su Min's answer. I had never made anything Korean before, and being able to do cross culture cooking without even trying is pretty exciting...too bad I didn't write down how I made it!
One of my favorite things about making soup is that you really don't have to measure anything, and you can just kind of throw in whatever. Diced onion? Why not? Chicken? Sure! What veggies do I have in my freezer? I just peeled and diced and added things according to what colors I felt like my soup should have. Did I count how many carrots I put in? Of course not! I just kept putting them in until I was satisfied with the color ratio of orange to green, white, and all of the other things that made it in.
I lived in Kentucky for a few years, and a traditional dish that they have is a stew called "Burgoo." It is pretty yummy, but there are a lot of jokes about it because apparently a long time ago it was a stew that poor families would make with anything that they could find...random animals that they hunted, veggies they had from their gardens, or even animals that they found on the side of the road. Thinking about burgoo made me smile as I dug through my own cupboards, as well as the cupboards of my roommates for delicious things to throw in.
The apartment smelled amazing, and I enjoyed sitting on the kitchen table listening to the bubbling and plopping of the aromatic "brew" on the stove top. The final test came ah hour or two later. Was this soup purely therapeutic, or did it actually have palatable qualities? Su Min, my lovely Korean roommate was the brave soul to put my soup to the test. She scooped some out into a bowl and held the bowl to her lips, blowing on it until it was cool enough. She took a sip, and then shrieked out, "so good! Taste just like Korea soup. My mom make Korea soup. It make me think of home!" I was pretty thrilled by Su Min's answer. I had never made anything Korean before, and being able to do cross culture cooking without even trying is pretty exciting...too bad I didn't write down how I made it!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
The Praying mantis
I found the most miraculous bug the other day. I was walking around the parking lot at our apartments while talking on the phone late late late in the evening, and there it was, looking, yes looking up at me. Its triangle head pivoted from one side to the other, looking me up and down…eerily. It walked slowly across the concrete as if it were on the elliptical machine at the gym, gliding, just gliding. It was white too. Perhaps that is why it caught my attention so much. I had never seen a white praying mantis before. A white praying mantis looking me up and down, and gliding, just gliding.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I said, as I placed my hand in the little guy’s gliding path. He paused for a moment, tucking his long arms in like he was really going to say a prayer right then and there, and then stretched them both towards my hand.
Now, I have never been bitten or clawed by a praying mantis, but I have heard that it is really painful. Those lovely long praying arms that they have are also preying arms, you see, with jagged barbs on the inside that could claw a human hand, belonging to a girl, walking in a parking lot, late at night.
I held my breath and tried not to move suddenly. I was worried that those praying arms would become preying arms, but that didn’t happen. The little guy hopped on my hand as if he had been thumbing for a taxi the whole time. I walked as smoothly as if I had a teapot on my head, that’s how smooth I walked. I guess the guy was feeling a little confident, so he started gliding right up my arm. That was too much! I flung and reeled, and that pious little fellow got flung and reeled to ten feet away…back to the concrete.
I approached him again, worried that he’d not be so forgiving, and put my hand in his gliding path once more. He swiveled his little head towards me, looked deep into my soul with his dark, specky little eyes, and then glided right back to his spot on my hand.
I ditched the teapot and hopped on a paso fino insead. Also smooth, but faster. The white praying mantis, the paso fino, and I glided together to the nearest shrub where I gratefully deposited the devout little bug on a branch. With one final look at my unexpected friend, I left him to his own devices, either praying or preying…I am not sure, but I hope he is well.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I said, as I placed my hand in the little guy’s gliding path. He paused for a moment, tucking his long arms in like he was really going to say a prayer right then and there, and then stretched them both towards my hand.
Now, I have never been bitten or clawed by a praying mantis, but I have heard that it is really painful. Those lovely long praying arms that they have are also preying arms, you see, with jagged barbs on the inside that could claw a human hand, belonging to a girl, walking in a parking lot, late at night.
I held my breath and tried not to move suddenly. I was worried that those praying arms would become preying arms, but that didn’t happen. The little guy hopped on my hand as if he had been thumbing for a taxi the whole time. I walked as smoothly as if I had a teapot on my head, that’s how smooth I walked. I guess the guy was feeling a little confident, so he started gliding right up my arm. That was too much! I flung and reeled, and that pious little fellow got flung and reeled to ten feet away…back to the concrete.
I approached him again, worried that he’d not be so forgiving, and put my hand in his gliding path once more. He swiveled his little head towards me, looked deep into my soul with his dark, specky little eyes, and then glided right back to his spot on my hand.
I ditched the teapot and hopped on a paso fino insead. Also smooth, but faster. The white praying mantis, the paso fino, and I glided together to the nearest shrub where I gratefully deposited the devout little bug on a branch. With one final look at my unexpected friend, I left him to his own devices, either praying or preying…I am not sure, but I hope he is well.
Monday, September 19, 2011
The weekend
Friday was a very nice and busy day for me. The highlight was that I got to go to school with my friend Charla, who is a junior high Spanish teacher. I got permission to go into the classroom and help out for the entire day. The day was especially fun because it was Mexican Independence Day, so of course, we had to teach everyone the "grito," or chant. Charla had a recording that would go on every few minutes or so that would say "Viva la independencia," then everyone would yell, "Viva!" Then the voice would say, "Viva Mexico," and the class would yell, "Viva!" This was repeated a few times to make a complete cheer. That was of course fun and exciting...so exciting that I'm afraid we might have been a little bit of distraction for the class next to us.
One of my favorite things to observe was all of the students that were already native Spanish speakers, and how they interacted with the teacher and the class. I loved all of the funny things that they would say, knowing that the class couldn't understand them. Three boys were goofing off, and one of them, a native Spanish speaker, said in Spanish, "Van a pelear! Castiga a los dos!" Basically that means, "they are going to fight! Punish them both!" I know that doesn't seem too funny to anybody reading this, but I found it really funny especially because it just caught me by surprise. Overall, that was a good day, and I am looking forward to going in again.
After getting home from teaching with Charla, I got all ready for my first intramural basketball game of the season. I had so much fun playing! There were only three girls that showed, which meant that we didn't have any subs, so I got to play the entire time! We played a really good game, but unfortunately it kind of fell apart in the last quarter and we ended up losing by one point!!! I still had a blast though, so it didn't matter too much. Something that did bother me though was two giant blisters on the bottom of my feet the size of quarters. I guess I just shouldn't have played ball in my running shoes! The game was on Friday, and here it is, Monday, and I am still walking like a goof! Hopefully that resolves itself soon.
Another happening of the weekend...some of my roommates got sick. Two were throwing up, and one had a nasty cold. This of course freaks me out because in a six person apartment, we are all living in tight quarters... this means lots of exposure. I have been running around like a maniac sanitizing everything with clorox wipes. Hopefully this plague will pass over me and my sanitized offerings...we shall see!
One more thing...BYU lost...bad. I live right next to the football stadium which makes it even harder. Okay, that is all I am going to write about that....shame.
One of my favorite things to observe was all of the students that were already native Spanish speakers, and how they interacted with the teacher and the class. I loved all of the funny things that they would say, knowing that the class couldn't understand them. Three boys were goofing off, and one of them, a native Spanish speaker, said in Spanish, "Van a pelear! Castiga a los dos!" Basically that means, "they are going to fight! Punish them both!" I know that doesn't seem too funny to anybody reading this, but I found it really funny especially because it just caught me by surprise. Overall, that was a good day, and I am looking forward to going in again.
After getting home from teaching with Charla, I got all ready for my first intramural basketball game of the season. I had so much fun playing! There were only three girls that showed, which meant that we didn't have any subs, so I got to play the entire time! We played a really good game, but unfortunately it kind of fell apart in the last quarter and we ended up losing by one point!!! I still had a blast though, so it didn't matter too much. Something that did bother me though was two giant blisters on the bottom of my feet the size of quarters. I guess I just shouldn't have played ball in my running shoes! The game was on Friday, and here it is, Monday, and I am still walking like a goof! Hopefully that resolves itself soon.
Another happening of the weekend...some of my roommates got sick. Two were throwing up, and one had a nasty cold. This of course freaks me out because in a six person apartment, we are all living in tight quarters... this means lots of exposure. I have been running around like a maniac sanitizing everything with clorox wipes. Hopefully this plague will pass over me and my sanitized offerings...we shall see!
One more thing...BYU lost...bad. I live right next to the football stadium which makes it even harder. Okay, that is all I am going to write about that....shame.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Comfort zone
Today I did it! It was my very first singing test in my very first singing class since the fifth grade. I used to love to sing. I even had aspirations of becoming an opera star, or performing in musicals. Alas, all of my dreams came to a halt when at the age of ten I learned the truth...I cannot sing! Ever since then it has been strictly band class for me! I wasn't even good at that, to tell you the truth, but I enjoyed it.
I always felt uncomfortable singing the hymns in church because my voice just wouldn't ever go as high as it needed to, and I hated having to skip out on half of the notes in each song! Going on a mission really helped me because especially in the Spanish wards, people expect you to sing all of the time and even to be good at it! "Now las hermanas will be singing a duet...in front of the whole church." Or, "Hermanas, would you sing at my dear friend's funeral?" Let's face it...we do scary ridiculous things for the people we love! Anyway, singing got to be at least a little bit more comfortable for me after that.
I decided to try out my rekindled enjoyment of singing in a basic 111R singing class. I thought that since it was a class of eighteen, that we'd all be singing together the whole time...WRONG! We are required to perform four solos in front of the class throughout the semester. Today I sang "Where is Love," from the musical, "Oliver." Oh dear, I felt like such a nerd...."whhheeere is loooove?" I was also extremely nervous.
My wonderful roommate practiced and practiced with me until I felt fairly confident about singing the piece. My brain was settled and I was at peace with the whole situation...or so I thought! Although my brain was okay with me singing, somehow my body rebelled. As I stood up to sing I felt my throat get fuzzy, my chest get tight, and my legs start to go numb. Are you kidding me? I squeaked through it all, but was a little disappointed that it didn't come out as well as I had practiced. Owell! The fact that I went up and sang in front of a group of people I didn't know is a pretty big step for me. I should just be happy that I didn't puke or pass out! We'll work on style the next time around!
I always felt uncomfortable singing the hymns in church because my voice just wouldn't ever go as high as it needed to, and I hated having to skip out on half of the notes in each song! Going on a mission really helped me because especially in the Spanish wards, people expect you to sing all of the time and even to be good at it! "Now las hermanas will be singing a duet...in front of the whole church." Or, "Hermanas, would you sing at my dear friend's funeral?" Let's face it...we do scary ridiculous things for the people we love! Anyway, singing got to be at least a little bit more comfortable for me after that.
I decided to try out my rekindled enjoyment of singing in a basic 111R singing class. I thought that since it was a class of eighteen, that we'd all be singing together the whole time...WRONG! We are required to perform four solos in front of the class throughout the semester. Today I sang "Where is Love," from the musical, "Oliver." Oh dear, I felt like such a nerd...."whhheeere is loooove?" I was also extremely nervous.
My wonderful roommate practiced and practiced with me until I felt fairly confident about singing the piece. My brain was settled and I was at peace with the whole situation...or so I thought! Although my brain was okay with me singing, somehow my body rebelled. As I stood up to sing I felt my throat get fuzzy, my chest get tight, and my legs start to go numb. Are you kidding me? I squeaked through it all, but was a little disappointed that it didn't come out as well as I had practiced. Owell! The fact that I went up and sang in front of a group of people I didn't know is a pretty big step for me. I should just be happy that I didn't puke or pass out! We'll work on style the next time around!
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