being a house-daughter

While i wish i had my own place again, and would love to be a house-wife (without having to be a wife), being a house-daughter is okay. (I do work 'outside the home' as they call it, too). I like doing housework. There are few things as satisfying to a concrete person as physically attacking a mess, and a few hours later, having tangible (albeit very temporary) results on view.

Today, being Friday, i didn't have an outside job to do. I did have a long list of things to do around the house, partially found below:

Vacuum remnants of Christmas tree. Even though it was a live tree, it shed needles around the little table on which it sat. I wonder if they were sympathy needles for its big brothers and sisters who felt the ax? Not that i have problems with cutting Christmas trees: they're planted for that purpose, new ones are planted to replace them, and around here, almost all of them are mulched. It's altogether a very renewable and sustainable tradition. I did enjoy the smell and seeing new growth at the end of the branches of our little live one.

Water the potted plants and herbs. In pots on the porch are a few chrysanthemums and scented geraniums, miscellaneous succulent things, and lots of miniature roses, which should be dead-headed and pruned for winter. (I like spending quality time with the roses, so i saved that for tomorrow. They don't like quality time, and attack with all thorns out--i usually look rather clawed by the end.) The sweet peas are climbing higher, and i wonder when they will bloom? A mint plant has cloned itself all over the yard and doesn't need any help surviving as the fittest, so i didn't give it any water. And last but not least, our live Christmas tree was moved outside to a partially sunny spot; it was very thirsty and drank half a gallon before water ran out the drain holes. We'll see if he survives outside until next Christmas. I give it two days before a raccoon, skunk or opossum knocks him over.

Ah, i love gardening. I missed that. I tried growing basil and mint in a pot in Cameroon. They began to sprout, and i congratulated them that evening after work. The next morning, as i stepped out the door to walk to work, a grasshopper was having breakfast! I kicked him off the balcony. A few weeks later, my plants had bravely grown back a little. As i unlocked my door, i turned to greet them as usual...a grasshopper was dining! I tried growing them on the back balcony, but they got eaten there too. There wasn't enough space for the pot inside my apartment, nor enough light, so i gave up.

Make mint julep mix. That is for Sunday evening, and it's currently steeping on the counter. Three cups of freshly crushed leaves didn't even dent the mint taking over the back yard.

Wash my car. My car is black and horribly shows dirt, so it gets a bath every week. It really needed it since this week's rain, instead of washing my car, gave it leopard spots! Must not have been a hard enough rain; either that, or the air was filthy since the last rain was some time ago and desert winds had been blowing. I usually like washing my car, but it's cold outside, the water is icy, and my damp Teva-clad toes freeze, so i'm not a happy camper.

I love my little manual transmission Jetta, especially taking the curves on Brea Canyon Road with the windows down, the sunroof open, and the cool earthy scent of the hills flowing through the car. After the original shock of getting on the freeway after two years of not driving (8 lanes, 80 miles an hour, lots of shiny un-dinged cars--i nearly got right back off at the next exit), driving has become second nature again.

Wax my car. As for waxing, i only did the roof this time. Last time was the hood, pummeled by my commute on the 91. My mother waxes her car's hood each week, but water still beaded up nicely on mine (no commute this week) so i tackled the roof. I always think i am pretty strong (for a girl) until i wax my car: "Wipe off excess with soft cloth and then buff to a shine", the directions advise. Wipe! More like exert all your elbow grease to get the excess off, and get buff yourself! My arms hurt.

Clean bathroom(s). I know most people don't get excited about cleaning bathrooms, but i'm the only one who uses one of them, so it isn't that disgusting if i do say so myself. Besides, it smells citrusy and clean, and sparkles (i like sparkly things); it doesn't take long, and ta da! Something on the list is done.

My househelper cleaned my bathroom in Cameroon; that, and went to the veggie market, and mopped the floor. I mopped it on my hands and knees over one summer, and decided avoiding that chore alone was worth a househelper. I even hate mopping in the States, where we have special floor cleaner solutions and spongy mops that wring themselves. Although i didn't have a mop, she didn't mop it on her hands and knees: she tied a rag around the broom, very clever (though the broom did look a little squashed by the end of two years). Hating mopping helped justify my middle-class American qualms about having "a servant"--although the fact that she was putting herself through school was enough of a reason to give her a job.

Make potpourri out of limes. There is a dwarf lime tree in the backyard. We put sliced limes in water. We make lime meringue pie and limeade. We give them away. They still decorate the yard like miniature tennis balls after a serving lesson. SO, i am going to cut them into half-inch slices, spray olive oil on the oven racks, and bake them at 250 for a few hours to make potpourri disks. They smell nice and look spiffy in a wooden bowl on the coffee table. And they don't sprout penicillin all over the yard.

That's about it. Lots more to do, like clean my birds' cage and pay bills and make invitations for a baby shower, and, and...odd how chores make me appreciate being home.

haircuts

Thursday: Today i went someplace new for a haircut. I'd had it trimmed shortly after arriving back simply to fix it. I didn't have a real hair cut while i was in Cameroon. A friend kindly cut it once but she was Korean and used to cutting straight glossy hair; my hair is curlier on one side than the other and was a little out of whack as a result (although it did have healthier ends). I don't know why curly/straight require different tactics, but they definitely do. The latest trim in Cameroon had been done by myself. It looked okay when my hair was pinned up off my neck, but if it was down and wet, it had obviously been cut by an amateur without a mirror! On top of that, i'd run out of conditioner my last two months in Cameroon and hadn't yet had all that mess cut off. Quite a disaster. Definitely wasn't feeling up to par in fashionable Paris en route to California.

Today, i didn't only want my hair fixed, i wanted something new. Something sassy. Something easy to create in the morning--namely wash, use a little goo and go. Voilà, an hour and 8 inches less later, it's short, sassy, and depending on how i want to look, easily taken care of. Best of all, if i don't like it in a few weeks, it will grow out to where it was by the end of 2007.

As a side note, i wish i'd taken a photo of the haircut/barber shops in Cameroon. They weren't aesthetically pleasing--no vintage leather seats, nor froo froo spongepaint on the walls; no flowers, coffee or mood music; just simple clapboard shacks or rooms with the options painted on the outside wall--but i walked past them every day. A male colleague with very fine straight blond hair went to get a haircut at one of these road-side shops. The barber gave a few snips, and then said he couldn't do it because he'd "never cut white man hair before" and didn't know what to do. He refused payment for the tentative trim he had done. And since Cameroonian women usually plaited, straightened or buzzed their hair, i can't imagine what a stylist would have thought of cutting my long, unruly fine-haired mop. I had my hair plaited once. It took about 7 hours. Scissors were not a part of the event.

Sunday: I kind of miss my old style. :-( Alas. I'll get used to it. And it will grow back.

dining

Yesterday, as it was my mother's birthday, my family went out for dinner. My brother and i had offered to entertain ourselves so that my parents could have a night out, but they wanted to go somewhere mid-scale anyway, and wanted it to be family.

We went to a little local place in Placentia. The food is good, the clientèle seems mostly regulars, and the atmosphere is interesting. The owner greets you at the door and escorts you to your table. He must enjoy his work, because he looks like he has been entitled to retire and relax for some time.

The thing that struck me the most about the evening was the portion sizes.

I didn't frequent many restaurants while i was in Yaounde. My favorite and only repeat--La Salsa--had nothing to do with Mexican food at all. It was French/Italian. I loved their food, but as it was very classy, i didn't go that often. When i did go, i usually had the same thing: the lightest, freshest pita bread and most garlicky hummus in town, in the whole country, in fact. Then either fantabulous seafood spaghetti or Chateaubriand. Now, the hummus was intended for sharing, and we did. The seafood spaghetti and Chateaubriand were not--but i couldn't eat it all. Maybe i could have if i hadn't had hummus, but having merely one course isn't very European, is it? The servings weren't enormous--although i must admit, i usually devoured half a fresh baguette, too, and in the heat, a good litre of water. So, i'd ask to take the rest home. The wait staff politely packaged it up. In fact, if it was a table of English speakers with American or Canadian accents, they assumed they would be packaging up the leftovers.

When i went there with a European friend, he was appalled. Apparently, one does not take one's leftovers home from a restaurant in France.

But French restaurants usually do not serve more than one can eat. They serve a portion, the kind defined by the Nutrition Facts on food packaging. Half a cup of this. Four ounces of that. American restaurants serve several portions-worth of food on a plate. At any rate, since the wait staff didn't slight us, my friend adjusted to the idea. I think he still considers it slightly uncouth but i digress...

When i go out for a meal, i go out for a pleasant dining experience that i do not have to chop, dice, or saute beforehand, and especially do not have to clean up afterward. A pleasant dining experience precludes feeling ill as you leave because you were unable to resist that one last bite, or the one before it. I do not go out seeking to feel stuffed, salted, or pickled; nor to come home wondering when i'm going to eat the two meals-worth of leftovers in styrofoam boxes cluttering up the fridge with food that never tastes as good nuked in the microwave the next day.

At this restaurant in Placentia, my meal was A Serving. It was delicious. It was satisfying. I savoured every bite. And there are no styrofoam boxes in my fridge.

driving into the sunrise

This morning i saw Saturn high overhead as i waited to take friends to the airport, and the Big Dipper to the north. Coming back from the airport, facing the sunrise, the waning crescent moon was exquisitely superimposed on the sky. It's two days until new moon, and the edge of dark right side was just barely surrounded by pale light, as if sunlight was escaping around the edge.

When i moved to Cameroon, i missed the familiar constellations of the higher northern hemisphere. No Cassiopeia--too many city lights at that edge of the horizon. No Polaris. Sometimes the Big Dipper was visible, but it was usually obscured by the same light problem Cassiopeia had. Sometimes i'd point out Orion and Sirius to my friends as we enjoyed the cool night breeze on our roof, or Saturn as it passed overhead. I think i saw the Southern Cross. (That was a nifty advantage of living near the equator--seeing the Big Dipper and the Southern Cross from the same roof.)

Maybe the fact that i didn't look up and learn the constellations around me indicates that i really didn't see myself being there permanently. They weren't entirely different--i was still in the northern hemisphere, albeit by only 3.8 degrees. It wouldn't have been that difficult, especially using this fantastic website.

cell phones

I used to hate cell phones. In fact, i was quite the reverse-cell-phone snob. I wouldn't date a man who answered a cell phone call in public.

Then i moved to a small stable country in Africa where the land lines were not so stable. In fact, they were downright unavailable. Living alone, as a foreigner and a foreign woman at that, i kind of wanted a way to get in touch with people. The phones were cheap. The phone cards were cheap too--no contracts, no plans--and they lasted a long time since i hardly used the phone. But i had it. I got used to it. It went with me wherever i went.

One day, chatting *on the phone* with my mother as i was preparing to return to the US, she asked me if i was going to get a cell phone when i got back. Was i going to miss having a phone? Nah, i shrugged. Who needs it? We have a land line. It works. We have an answering machine, and it works. What would i need a cell phone for?

But i have one. My little brother gave it to me when he met me in Europe for a low-budget tour of Paris. I was going to be in England on my own for a few days, and he thought i should have a phone, being the protective not-so-little-anymore brother that he is. Besides, he added, it will be useful when you're home to have a number that you can give to friends and resumes without having to give out Mom and Dad's number, and when you move out, you won't have to change numbers.

He made sense. And i wasn't going to reject a gift out of reverse-snobbery. I was appreciative. It was a nice and thoughtful gesture, despite causing a mini-lifestyle change from what i had intended for myself.

Now i'm grateful for it. Tonight i got to talk to a good friend who lives in Texas. For free. (And making good use of the time i was stuck commuting in first gear because traffic was so horrid.) I can talk to a good friend in Chicago--for free. Email notwithstanding, those friendships wouldn't last as long if we couldn't talk for a few hours every once in a while without cringing at the phone bill.

Thanks, bro.

go to the ant...

The little blond ones were cute, zipping around for minuscule bits of nourishment. The biting little red ones i never saw inside; they lurked in the grass to nip between your toes. The black medium-sized ones looked like they meant business and cleaned away dead lizards. The army ones were frightening enough to inspire (hence resemble) horror film and sci-fi-bad-guy-creatures. I don't like squishing any of them; they don't really squish, they crunch, and i feel guilty because they work so hard. It's not like they are cockroaches. [And after recently seeing ants personified in Antz (hey, it was dubbed in German, i was a substitute for a high school German class), it will be harder to squish them or wipe them off the counter with a sponge. BTW, army ants kind of do look like the soldier ants in that film...]

I also feel guilty squishing them because i'm grateful that they cleared away dead cockroaches, meaning i didn't have to dispose of the remains. It was hard enough to accurately hit a cockroach with a shoe; if it hadn't been for adrenaline, i'm sure i'd never have hit them since i was usually simultaneously leaping onto a chair, yelping, and throwing the shoe. I didn't want to go over and see a squished cockroach, or worse, see it wave its antennae at me and charge. If i just left it there under the shoe, sure enough, by morning, the cockroach would be entirely gone.

One night after work i didn't feel like preparing a real dinner, so i made oatmeal. I dropped a flake or two in the process. Before i could wipe off the counter, the little guys were out scavenging.

I watched an ant struggle to carry a whole oatmeal grain. He gave up the idea of carrying and began tugging it, slowly moving backward. What a meaningless struggle. He's hauling away on a piece of food, who knows how far the ant hill is and i bet he gets stepped on or sprayed before he gets home. And if he's not stepped on, he'll have to go out again and struggle with another unwieldy bit of food. Why not pick up of a grain of sugar? Why keep tugging on that bit of oatmeal? I raised my hand to wipe him off the counter and off the face of the earth...and couldn't do it. It had been a hard day (hence the oatmeal for dinner instead of something more exciting) and i felt a little squished myself.

I got out a sharp knife and carefully cut the oatmeal flake in two. The ant, unfazed, hoisted it up and carried it off.

I'm not sure what that says about my sanity, but i felt better, and snapped this photo of him as a reminder that there can be small, satisfying things found even in a crummy day. ;-) Maybe it was also a reminder that oatmeal is worth the work, even compared to the ease of carrying off sugar. And i'm not talking about diets.

I miss writing newsletters...fancy that!

Here goes.

Not entirely sure why i'm doing this, except that maybe a part of me misses writing newsletters every three months and email updates every two weeks. Okay, so i didn't send a prayer email update every two weeks, but i did try. My calendar had them scheduled in. It would ding at me as i graded papers, organized lecture notes, found materials for a read-and-discuss activity...and i would click "remind me later". The bell was going to ring any moment and I WASN'T READY, whereas i could draft the newsletter at home that night.

I usually forgot to turn my computer on once i got home. It would ding at me the next morning while i was grading papers, organizing lecture notes, finding materials for an activity, reading to know enough to feel confident teaching about the causes of WWI... . (I never know enough).

I do miss writing them. I miss having to pay attention to my life and reflect on it so that i'd have something to write. I miss getting mail back, too. I do not miss signing, stamping, and licking envelopes to mail out the newsletters.

That's part of a blog's appeal, i suppose. I can write with little concern about distribution. No paper jams. No licking stamps. No un-sticking envelopes that had sealed themselves from the 80% humidity. No paper used at all (i hope).